A Wolf in The Twilight
by iniquityfic
Summary: Her world had just exploded. Everything Leah had ever known had seized up, shut down...ended. Sort of the way she imagined her father's heart had stopped. And as Leah tore from her home to escape the blare of sirens, she found herself running to him... This is Leah Clearwater's Twilight. A story paralleling the book series through the perspective of a blind doctor, new to town.
1. Chapter 1 - Infinite Monsters

A Wolf in Twilight imagines the story of Leah Clearwater through the perspective of a young, blind doctor, new to Forks, and unwittingly thrust into the world of wolves and vampires. Closely follows and references the events of the series.

* * *

 **March 8th, 2006**

A few weeks following the Breaking News of a horrific bear attack in the Olympic National Park near Forks, WA.

* * *

Chapter 1: Infinite Monsters

The smell of gas and oil. Like a perfume, it clung to the inside of the truck, hinting at character, defining impressions. One might have thought Owen accustomed to the mechanical smells of the beaten up, old Ford '95. After all, his father's truck had been a staple of his childhood. Long summers seated right where he sat that rainy afternoon, bouncing along, head lulled to the side, against the window that had quit working years ago. He recalled that tickle in his jaw from the vibration of the glass. Enough, it had his younger self constantly adjusting and re-adjusting to find the best spot for rest. There had also been more space for his knees.

But the years had changed things. He had obviously grown. Even at his meager five-foot-ten, he had to turn them at just the right angle to avoid the glove-compartment box. The sensation at the window was different, as well. Still an irritant, less a distraction. Or, perhaps, it was Owen's steeled intent to keep his facade of rest and not draw attention to himself. Yes. Uncomfortable though he was, Older Owen was far wiser than Younger Owen and understood how best to keep the cab happy. Minimal attention meant even less talking. So, feign sleep. Only five more hours to go.

The vents were on full blast. He felt the unfiltered air like a punch; rain-tinted air, gently heated by the engine and then released into the truck's interior in a ceaseless spray of humidity. It made the space a tad chilly. Owen hazarded a shifting of his body to set one jacketed arm against the brunt of the vent.

"Too cold?" Owen's heart dipped. Mission to remain forgotten failed.

"Sorry. I'll get it," the voice beside him said quickly.

A click at the dashboard and the press of artificial wind quit.

"Thanks," he murmured in his best 'I'm half-asleep' voice. No use. Owen heard his father clear the gravel from his throat, a tell that meant a discussion was on the way. And then silence. The expected hush as the elder Reid formed his thoughts. Owen couldn't help an internal sigh. Maybe because there in that truck, he could remember a different person seated beside him those long summers before the accident. A man who spoke with far less hesitancy to his son.

The space between words was filled with the pat-patter of a gentle rainfall made vicious beneath their speed on the highway.

"Passin' Portland, here, in thirty," came the eventual observation, tinged with a familiar Texas drawl. Another clearing of his smoke-stained throat. "So, uh, figure we could stop there fer lunch."

"If it's ok, I'd like to make it into Forks before six."

"Yeah sure."

More silence. Owen had become adept at reading it and could guess his father's internalizing, which was likely loaded with self-doubt and discomfort. So odd. Like a completely different person than the man Owen remembered. But, then again, hadn't the surgery made them all different people? Owen gritted his teeth, willing the thoughts out of his mind, thoughts and his own personal insecurities. They'd been banished years ago. No doubt, it was just the familiarity of the setting getting to him.

The rattling window...the smell of his father's truck...

"You know, maybe we should stop," Owen said quickly, straightening up in his seat as an unbidden wave of claustrophobia washed in from the memories. "Let's not wait for Portland, though. There should be some fast food coming up, right?"

"Next exit," his father confirmed, catching a bit of that same need to get out.

Lunch was thankfully typical. Some good old highly processed Subway. Owen relished a brief respite from company as he ate alone while his father filled the gas tank and then perused the gift shop. He sat alone in the small booth, dark-tinted shades pinching at the bridge of his nose. He never liked wearing them but his father insisted, even then in the gas station, miles away from home. It wasn't a cruel or demanding insistence. No, it was something far worse...

Embarrassment?

 _"Here's yer glasses, son."_ And the tone of his voice was always so tight, clipped.

Owen had attempted several times throughout the years to assure his father that the glasses weren't necessary. I'm not ashamed, anymore. And every time, it had been the same response.

 _"Doc says it helps."_

All up until the last time when Owen had pointedly reminded his father that the 'doc' had said that years ago, after the surgery, after the breakdown.

 _"I don't use these anymore."_

 _"Just take them!"_ The older man had snapped.

And that was it. Owen knew, the glasses weren't for his benefit. They were for his father's sake. So, he had taken the shades and put them on and then never taken them off, when around his father. Which wasn't often.

"Hey, I got us some jerky," loud and approaching at Owen's ten o'clock; Mr. Reid, like a herald heralding himself into the moment. The younger man gave a quick, forced smile of acknowledgement and tried not to think about the eyes of those around, no doubt, on them.

Just a few more hours, Owen promised himself.

And it was.

The sun had just begun to set, ushering in a noticeable cold, when the old truck growled onto S. Forks Ave. Owen was seated forward, head turned slightly as he listened to his new home. The rain. It had let up through most of Southern Washington but then returned in force twenty miles outside of town. His father had quipped something about renting a pontoon boat for the rest of the way, but Owen was focused completely on the wealth of newness invading his senses.

Perhaps it was the excitement of starting a new chapter, starting it alone for the first time in his life, but something in the air felt different. As if they had just driven through the wardrobe and could expect to find crossing signs for Fawns and maybe a talking animal to provide directions to Klahndike Blvd., where his studio apartment awaited.

Well, they didn't find magical creatures but did manage to attract a blast of siren from a cop, hiding down a side road.

"Oh, hell," Owen's father groaned.

A minute later, they were pulled off to the side. The officer took his time before there came the tap-tap of knuckles on the driver's side window.

"Evenin', officer." And there was a handing over of the necessary identification.

"Evening."

The voice of the man outside was low, a natural authority grounding the tone.

"Where you headed..." A pause. A glance at the license. "Mr. Reid?"

"Klahndike?" The older Reid let the question tell the story of their newness to the area. And the officer seemed to read better than expected.

"You're the new Doc Will?"

"Huh?"

Owen leaned forward, catching the reference and raising a hand: "That'd be me."

Doctor William Taggert was one of the few licensed chiropractors working in the area. He also happened to be the man Owen was replacing.

"Good to meet you, Doctor Reid. I'm Officer Swan." A mix of ease and no-nonsense blended his voice into something strong and reliable. Owen appreciated him, already.

"You have a tail-light out, sir," he continued, addressing Owen's father again over the pops of rain on his hat. "I'd like you to get that fixed before heading out."

A warning was written and handed over and then the officer gave the truck's hood a pat in parting.

"Happy to have you in Forks," Swan said in Owen's direction. "And, uh, let me know if you need anything, ok?"

Owen gave a nod of thanks.

"See you Tuesdays, doc."

Apparently, Owen had just met his first client.

xXXx

The apartment was reasonable, a tiny one bed, one bath with a kitchen adjoining the living space. 435 square feet. Eight easy steps from the door to the refrigerator. Five to the bedroom. Five more to the restroom. Just enough room for Fork's newest bachelor. The living quarters filled up nicely with a couch, a computer desk and old fashioned CD player where the TV might have gone. There was the tower of CDs with everything from classical to rock to world music. Owen had diverse tastes, made most evident in his modular bed. Three supported cushions linked together that could be converted into any number of configurations. He had it laid flat as a traditional mattress.

There was small circular dining table with a glass surface and two chairs. His father grumbled about the impracticality of the setup and attempted multiple times to convince Owen to purchase a wood top. It was almost as big an argument as the candles. Owen loved candles. And he had them set in strategic locations all throughout the apartment.

"It'll be fine," he assured his father.

"Just don't get the sense of it, 'cause-...well..."

Owen stood in the center of his new home, completely at home. A deep intake of breath fixing the scent of the place in-mind and in-heart. He was happy. He smiled. It tugged at the corners of his shielded, sightless eyes.

"Thanks for bringing me, dad."

A long, quiet moment. Different in the quality of tension. Because his rough and capable father was attempting to keep the emotion out of his voice.

"Ok, well, I'm gonna...I'm gonna get the rest of your things. And then I figured I'd get goin', if that's ok. Got a long drive home and they're expecting me at the new job site by Tuesday."

Owen knew. They had already discussed the arrangement. The drive there and the quick departure. It had been one of his father's leading arguments against the idea of going...of driving his disabled son two states away to deposit him in the foreign land that was Forks, Washington. Give it a pass, son. It's too quick, too soon. Other opportunities will come. But that wasn't true. Inheriting an established practice straight out of residency was the opportunity of a lifetime. Even more so for a young, blind doctor.

"Call me when you get back to Texas," Owen said at the doorway, gripping his father's hand in farewell. He couldn't see the tears in the old man's eyes and no words came in response for fear of revealing them, if there. Just a quick squeeze of the hand. And his father was gone. The closing of another chapter. He wouldn't receive a call. Like after the accident and then his parents' divorce, there would be no word unless Owen was the one to reach out.

He shut the door as the engine roared to life. Forehead to the frame, he drew in a deep, steadying breath.

Owen made the mental note to call his father, Thursday, after work.

xXXx

Healing Hands Chiropractic sat at the corner of Klahndike and Sol Duc Way, an easy five minutes and 350 steps, from Owen's apartment. He made it to the door of the office by 8:30am and then made it inside twenty minutes later, when a flustered woman came running up the steps.

"I'M HERE! I'M HERE, DOCTOR REID!" She had a voice that could fill an auditorium, rich and sing-song, even in her hurry. Jan Riley. No doubt. Though they had only spoken on the phone and via e-mail, her overdrive personality was unmistakable. It brought a smile instantly to his lips.

"How was the drive? Did you settle ok? Have you had breakfast, yet? Let's get breakfast! I know the best place! Pancakes like you've never tasted with some good Northern syrup!" He let himself be drawn up and led down the stairs to her vehicle, Jan's warmth like a wash of ease.

Before long they were sitting at The Lodge, a town favorite, sipping coffee while they awaited their meals. The place had a casual feel. He felt it in the freedom of the wait-staff, the nonchalance of a lingering chat or orders called to the kitchen. There was some dropped dishes followed by laughter and a few appropriately snarky comments. A fire crackled somewhere behind them, lending voice to the now familiar chorus of rain, outside.

"So nice to put a face to the text," Jan was saying. "And I can promise the late start is not my norm, sir. Like I said on the phone, I'll keep things purring on the paper-side, so you can focus on your work-"

With a shake of the head, he dismissed the tension.

"No worries. Just glad to be here."

"And I'm so glad to have you here, Doctor Reid."

"Owen's fine."

He felt a reach across the table and a pat on his hand.

"I'll be honest, I don't think we'll be seeing Doctor Will. We had the funeral and then...you know, he came in that one day and didn't say anything. He passed by his regulars, walked right into the office and that's when he wrote to you."

Owen recalled the e-mail that had changed his life.

Owen,

I'm leaving Forks. I want you to have the practice.

Will.

Twelve words. That was it. Twelve words from a man Owen had known only briefly through the chiropractic conference circuit. It had felt like a joke and may have been passed off as such, if not for the Breaking News the day prior. Authorities confirmed that the bodies of Anna Darling, Megan Taggert and Terrance Allen were recovered in Olympic National Park. Initial reports indicated a large animal attack.

And next Owen knew, he was putting in a notice at his internship and arranging a move to Washington.

"I still don't understand why he contacted me."

Jan said nothing for a long moment and then managed a deep intake of breath.

"I knew Megan." Some absent fiddling with her mug and silverware, keeping her hands busy. "We all did. She was back with her fiance for a quick visit before the start of the semester." It felt as if the room had suddenly become much smaller. The sounds all seemed to dull around them as Owen listened.

"Megan used to love surprising her dad at work. It was just the two of them after his wife passed away. She would sneak into the office and make me promise to keep quiet. Always our little secret. She'd hide around corners or sometimes in the closet or under my desk-" Her voice hitched. It was Owen's turn to reach forward and feel for her hand, which she took in a strong, grateful grip.

"All through Middle School and then High School. And then whenever she was in town for a break. She'd jump out and tackle him with a hug. And they would laugh and-" Jan sniffed. "He was just so happy, Owen. Such a happy man."

"I remember. My first conference. I thought I was in line for the small business talk when I hear this man walk up. He asks me, 'Son, do you like koolaid?' I said, 'Not particularly.' And he takes me by the arm and guides me across the hotel foyer to the correct line for the chiropractors conference. I had just been saved from accidently attending a Tony Robbins seminar."

At that, the woman across from him barked out a laugh.

"Dr. Reid!"

Owen chuckled.

"Will helped me navigate the rest of the conference and we've connected at others throughout the years." A pause. The young doctor let a bit of the seriousness seep back into the conversation. "Nothing more than those occasional meet-ups, though."

"I don't know," Jan admitted. Their food arrived with a wafting smell of eggs and bacon and pancakes. "Will shut down when Megan went missing. I've tried to keep things going by rescheduling the regular appointments. We've lost a lot of clientele, though. I don't know what to do, Owen."

Neither did he. But it didn't mean she needed to have the weight and pressure of that uncertainty on her mind. Owen forced a smile, something calm and reassuring.

"What you need to do is take the next three days off." He almost felt her shock and continued quickly, "Jan, you've done really good job, here. I so appreciate your work and your investment in the office." She was crying. "And what I need you to do, right now, is take a few days for yourself. I've reviewed all the expense reports you sent and the budget. We are going to be fine to close up shop 'til next week."

They needed that time. He needed the quiet to build a personal acquaintance with the space. Jan needed time to separate and mourn.

"Promise me, ok? Go away for a while with your family," she'd talked about them during one of their first phone calls. A husband and three kids. "Go away...but then come back."

She laughed again.

"Yes sir."

xXXx

Owen sat in the dark of his new office, hands folded, head bowed, thoughts a thousand miles and sixteen years away.

 _"What you're seeing, Owen, is nothing."_

 _"No, I see the lights."_

 _A million dancing lights. Beautiful orbs of colors and lines and squiggles that jumped with every turn of the eyes. They were playful things. He imagined a world where the shapes could talk. 'Look at me! Look at me!' They would say. 'If you catch us, we will tell you a secret...'_

 _A whole galaxy of color creatures._

 _"I don't understand..." His mother's voice in the memory, sad and distant._

 _"There's gotta be a way to fix this, doc!" His father's voice. "Therapy...'er somethin'!"_

 _The voices like a breeze. The colors like a planet...his planet. 'Catch us, Owen.' Everywhere he looked. 'Try to catch us.' Why couldn't he focus on anything?_

 _"The No Light Perception designation does not mean total black. What your son is experiencing is a kind of visual tinnitus; images and colors manifested by the mind."_

 _Tinnitus? What? Were they talking about him? The breeze was a wind in his ears. The planet was spinning. Little Owen blinked and looked all about himself for the exit...the escape pod to leave his shape planet and travel to where he heard his parent's voices._

 _"Mom?"_

 _"It's ok, baby." But her wind voice was a storm with tears like rain. He felt them hitting the top of his head. It wasn't ok. His father was a hurricane somewhere nearby._

 _"THIS SURGERY WAS S'POSED T' FIX HIM!"_

 _"Mr. Reid, I-..."_

 _The colors weren't playful anymore._

 _"David, stop yelling."_

 _The circles dashed across the sky. No. Not the sky...the sky was blue and what he saw was something like brown. 'Wanna know our secret?'_

 _"I'm gonna sue yer ass t' hell! You got no idea what's comin'!"_

 _Owen couldn't breathe. He tried to run, but something had him tight across the body. Arms. His mother's arms._

 _"You're scaring, Owen!" His mother's voice._

 _'Look at us, Owen...'_

 _"Please calm yourself, Mr. Reid. There's nothing we can do except help him adjust."_

 _The little boy gulped at air and pushed and wriggled with all his little might until he was falling...and the wind was screaming...and the hurricane was roaring...and his planet was laughing as he fell..._

SLAM!

Owen startled awake on the floor of the office, an old, known panic filling his chest. He leaned back, knees drawn up, arms wrapped tight about them until he was a ball of manic breaths at the feet of the chair he'd fallen from. Memories of that day as a child threaded in and out of his present with a reckless cruelty. Physical emotions at war with the logical mind.

He had fallen from his mother's lap that day, the day the doctor had told them about the failed surgery and what it meant for him.

Totally blind. The two words on his health documents.

It was the day he learned the secret of the color shapes.

 _'We will never leave. When you close your eyes. When you open them. Every second of your life until the day you die, we will be with you.'_

His own planet of beautiful, endless monsters.

Owen Reid hugged himself tight through the panic as his mother had done and began the methodic process of tuning out the infinity of his blindness, grounding deep into reality. First the clinical smells of the office. The hint of essential oils Jan must have favored at her desk. The feel of the cold tile beneath him.

Owen's heart began to slow its pace.

The faint taste of toothpaste on his teeth.

He felt his muscles relaxing.

The ever-present tap of rain. Gentle, soothing rain.

And somewhere far off...Owen heard the baying of a wolf.

* * *

Reference: Missing hikers in New Moon, Chapter 8.


	2. Chapter 2 - Memorare

**March 9th, 2006**

* * *

Chapter 2: Memorare

The alarm blared beside his bed, a pitchy howl of dissonance. The devil in his ear. _6:30am! 6:30am! 6:30am! You brought this on yourself, Owen. Get up._ Owen Reid was not a fan of mornings. Sure, he could blame the blindness. Studies had confirmed the lack of visual awareness essentially robbed his body of recognizing a proper day/night cycle. "The non-24". It sometimes had him up all hours of the night with little more than a good couple hours of true sleep. The alarm would sound. He'd stir in bed. Another day had come. Owen could blame the blindness, but there was a part of him that argued the thought. Even as he slapped the poor alarm clock into silence and laid there beneath his sheets, sightless eyes tracing a particularly brilliant orb of blue across his imagined field of vision, Owen felt a pang of petulance at the excuse. "The non-24". It was real. But it would not limit him.

Like the blindness, itself, Owen refused to have his life defined by the myriad of labels out there, waiting to cage him in excuses. _Disabled? Hardly. Watch as I lift and press weights right along with the pros. Handicapped? Watch me run the Tough Mudder. Impaired? Watch me graduate as a Doctor of Chiropractic with an alternative certification in sports massage therapy._

 _I will not be limited._

It was pride, pure and simple. Pride and stubbornness come by honestly, his mother would say. And while most applauded Owen's steeled determination, the hard fact remained that the labels were always at his back, ready to catch his failures and drown them in pity. _Oh, don't worry about dropping the weights, Owen. Don't worry about tripping in the mud…you couldn't see it. Don't worry about those few missed questions on the exam._

It had been a long night. It would be a long day. Nevertheless, Owen groaned into a rise. The morning's routine awaited. First, a light breakfast and then twenty minutes of yoga to wake up. Owen had not mapped out a route for his run, yet, so he followed the ease with a blast of HIIT training to get the blood running and the muscles fired up. An Anytime Fitness sat conveniently four blocks away, near the office. He dressed for the coming workout, a pair of cotton running pants, his favorite old Nikes and a tee, snug enough to keep the material from becoming a burden. He packed his work clothes, prepped lunch and snacks and then was off with the loaded bag slung over a shoulder and an umbrella to combat the ceaseless pelting rain. Part of Owen's intent that day was to acquaint himself with the nuances of the town, most specifically the odd juts and cracks and obstacles along what would eventually become his usual trek.

Cane set to a metronomic tempo, slow and steady. Tap tap tap. The soundtrack of his life. And on throughout the hours it went, through his stop at the gym and then the nearby family owned grocery store. Acquaintances made. Stories heard of the history of his new town with one common theme threaded into the encounters: hesitancy…apprehension. The norm of things. It would eventually smooth out once familiarity set in and the folks of Forks grew accustomed to their newest doctor.

"And we got La Push about twenty minutes on down 110," Owen sat at a small table, sipping a green tea, sightless eyes closed as he listened to Mama Buck, who just happened to run the best coffee shop in town, as per…Mama Buck. He'd stumbled upon it rather literally…when he had stumbled over the leg of an outside table and the woman had come charging out to his rescue. A sweet older lady with the smell of spices on her breath and hands like chilled vice grips. She had demanded he have a cup on the house, if he promised to introduce himself.

"La Push?" His smile was easy; a slight crease of dimples etching their lift. "That's the beach near the Quileute reservation?" Owen had read much during the weeks leading up to his move.

Mama must have given a nod, because a moment's pause ushered in a quick, almost apologetic, "Yep! But I'd not recommend going that way. You know. Tribes and all. They got their voodoo. Only ones at La push these days are the kids. Was a time when families would dot the whole of the place. Little feet slapping the sand and splashing in the water. You know, when I was raising mine, it was the best place to let them loose."

She paused and Owen read the cue easily enough, the want for a prompt. He adopted a thoughtful expression, head lulled to the side in question.

"Not anymore?"

"NOPE!" Right on the heels of his words. The young doctor's smile returned. Another sip of tea as Mama laid out a case against the state of modern times. There was much of the usual: drugs and rock 'n roll and 'whorish clothing'. But what most interested Owen was the woman's continual referencing of the 'devil in the woods'. Again and again it circled the discussion. 'The diamond devil of the moonlight.' A superstition not unlike the voodoo Mama decried whenever the subject turned around to the neighboring Quileute tribe. A white man-like thing that feasted on the animals of the forest.

"You're saying someone has seen this thing?" Owen interrupted at one point.

"I'm saying my boy saw it himself. Out hunting with his pa - God rest the idiot -," she crossed herself, "and they were laid out in their favorite spot, tracking a seven-point buck. My boy gets the shot lined up but then something spooks the animal and they take off after it. There's a break in the trees. It's night and the moon is full and lighting up a patch of ground. They see the buck's leg in the light."

Owen wasn't drinking anymore. His smile had gone.

"It's just the leg. The guys think it's a bear and make to get out but then they hear a hiss. My boy said it's what Satan must have sounded like in Eden. They take off running. My boy looks back and sees the leg pulled out of sight."

Mama Buck leaned in, intent on dramatic effect. But Owen was already invested. Something in the story resonated with eerie clarity, the details an echo of news he had read while investigating the area. Animals torn apart. Brief reports linking the attacks to bears. The same assumptions made about the deaths of the hikers.

"It was a hand," Mama said quietly, "He saw a pale hand that looked like it had been painted with diamonds, all bloody and sparkling in the moonlight."

xXXx

Superstition. That's what it amounted to. Once Owen had left the coffee shop and taken some time to filter the information through a bit of common sense and logic, the story amounted to little more than a small town's tradition of supernatural tales. They all had them. It was a part of every community's heritage. By the time Owen had made it back to the office, his office, thought had drifted to far more practical matters. He had a new business to operate.

The benefit of inheriting a small town's small chiropractic practice was that there was very little competition. Sure, a few other doctors had attempted the turf at one time or another, but invariably, familiarity had won the battle. Dr. Taggert had been beloved of the community. Born and raised and educated with only a few years outside the county for his higher education and residency. The man had been a staple of the Forks medical community, even despite the occasional feuds with traditional medical professionals. They were some very big shoes to fill. And first thing on Owen's list was to ensure the people of Forks understood that he was not there to replace them.

Partnership. That had been Owen's response to Dr. Taggert's e-mail, after careful consideration and research. There would be no cold, professional take-over of the practice. If Dr. Taggert truly did want Owen's involvement, it would be something akin to a respectful alliance among friends. Because that's exactly how the young Reid viewed the opportunity. Dr. Taggert needed time away to heal. Owen would hold down the fort while the elder doctor did so with the hopes that one day, Forks' favorite chiropractor would return.

So it was, with the remainder of his day, Dr. Owen Reid quietly went about the work of learning his predecessor's work…the nuances of the equipment and the rooms. The flavor of personality he could glean from the smells of the place, the feel of its character, its sounds. Dr. Taggert had lovingly crafted a place of personal, where healing happened through touch. Interesting, considering the history of the place, as detailed in some old records Owen had dug up prior to his move. The space had originally been designed with a small church in-mind, but renovations throughout the years had altered the layout to best fit the needs of the office. The foyer area became the waiting room. Carved wooden doors that had swung from foyer into a long sanctuary had been pulled and repurposed, set into the wall of the waiting area as a sort of homage to the building's old intent. The chapel had been sectioned off into four large quarters by temporary partition walls. No doubt an odd sight. It felt odd to traverse the makeshift hallway created by the inclusion of these out-of-place rooms. But then again, Owen was learning something new about his friend every moment spent there.

Dr. Taggert was a deeply religious man. Owen caught that, running his fingertips over the stained glass image at the back of the former chapel. Difficult to make out, but he could imagine the multi-colored shapes forming some sort of depiction from the Bible. Likely the cross. The severe angles at the center of the artwork summoned old thoughts of younger days, when Owen would attend mass with his parents and stare in wonder at the images all around him. Saints like towering monsters to a little boy. Their faces trapped in perpetual sadness or guilt…or pity. And then the cross. Always the cross, everywhere. Jesus bleeding…dying. All around him.

Owen snatched his fingers from the glass.

Back to the present. On to the rooms. Owen dragged his touch across the slick surface of the created walls to a plastic door handle and then inside. Each space was far less eccentric. One waiting room, a storage room, an office space for the doctor and then the operating room. It was all fairly standard. By the time Owen had felt his way through the layouts, he'd missed lunch and was heading for an early dinner. Mama Buck had some light options. But given their conversation, Owen was feeling the urge to disappear into a chain restaurant. Maybe the Denny's down the street.

It so happened, however, that in a small town, all establishments boasted that quality of intimacy. Everyone knew everyone. And in Owen's case, most everyone knew him by virtue of the circumstances that brought him to Forks. Thus it was, a simple dinner became an impromptu welcome/interview session with five or six residents. Where was he from? How did he know Dr. Taggert? Had he known Melody? Had he seen Dr. Taggert recently?

After the funeral of his daughter, the old Forks chiropractor had gone missing. A widower for years. Alone, save his daughter, there were no connections to follow and Owen had the sense the concern in the questions surrounding Dr. Taggert were sincere. No digging for gossip. These people had loved the man. Owen did his best to smile and answer what he could, food gone forgotten, until the last "Goodbye, glad to meet you," was said and he was shuffling his way out with a full to-go bag.

He tapped down the street, considering the day, the overwhelming rush of newness. His new home, his new work, his new community. Another day alone in the office would be welcome, if but to sit and process. Maybe a call to his mother? No. She was the type to fret at the barest hint of concern. He couldn't put that on her. Especially not after her latest trip to the hospital. Maybe his father? Owen halted, listening to the sounds of cars far off, the rain on his umbrella, and then the sigh from his lips. Yes…but later…he'd call when back at the apartment.

Perhaps that was why ten minutes later he found himself at the office instead of his home.

Owen settled into a bench beside the front door, the same he'd sat at while awaiting Jan Riley. It was a chilly evening. Not for the residents but for a Texas boy, accustomed to the nineties and above, the wet cold of fifty degrees had Owen rocking back and forth as he picked at dinner. Not so bad. A chicken deluxe salad. The meat needed some warming, though, which is what sent Owen back into the office.

Click click. The sound of his walking stick on the hardwood floor. Ten steps at an angle to the left. Follow the wall down a hall adjoining the foyer to the kitchen. He made it half way before freezing in place.

A noise, deeper into the office, somewhere in the chapel space.

Owen felt his heart rev up. He held his breath. The hand on his walking stick tightened. It was no weapon but there was nothing else...

Again, the sound. Like the panting of an animal. Short. Quick.

Silence…

Owen strained to hear. Not a movement made. Like those statues at mass. Perfectly still and locked into pose. He heard himself let out a shuttering breath. Mind racing. _What should I do?_

Run.

The flight urge instinctual and overwhelming. Something was in the office with him.

There it was again. Panting.

"Aaaaaaah…"

Owen dropped the Denny's box and stumbled backwards. A two-handed grip on the stick. It was raised like a bat. From deep in the back of the office it came, the roar, again.

"Aaaaaaah!"

The mind was a cruel thing sometimes. And when coupled with emotion, it could conjure the worst images at the worst times. Ghosts. Devils. Logic often tempered the beasts, but without the gift of sight, it was difficult to latch onto reality. Owen felt his blood race. Muscles tensed and swelled for the coming fight. Fear affected individuals differently. For most, it was that desire to escape. A simple thing when there was the equation of all senses working in unison to accomplish the task. In Owen's case though, his instincts had been shaped by years of a missing variable. It changed him. Forced the hard choice.

Fight. Always. In everything. Or else be a victim.

Owen's jaw clenched. Chest heaving with the spark of adrenaline. Senses ignited. He was stepping forward…towards the old chapel…towards the sound.

"Aaaaaaah!"

The young doctor felt tremors up and down his body. The roaring just ahead of him.

"God…God…"

It stopped his step. The voice so strained with agony. Images flooding the mind. A carved face, blood-stained and staring to heaven.

 _My God, My God, why have You forsaken me?_

"God…"

Owen felt a bit of the tension release. Arms slumped. A deep, calming breath. He knew that voice.

"Dr. Taggert?"

xXXx

They sat together, backs to the wall. Stained glass window above them. Dr. Taggert was trembling beneath Owen's arm as he wrapped the big man's shoulders. Both there in the dark, in the silence. No words between them. Just the shared tears. Dr. Taggert cried for an eternity. Owen hadn't asked when he settled down next to the old doctor, his old mentor. He'd simply held the man and cried with him.

And when the body simply couldn't produce anything more, they'd rested there. Owen's strong arm about the old, grieving father.

"She was my hero."

It was almost startling to hear the sudden, ragged whisper. Lips sealed. Owen listened.

"She was so set on medical research. No matter what I told her about the practice, here. You know?..." A hitched chuckle. "I said, 'Baby, you got it all, right here. This is yours and you'll be set for life.' She tells me, 'No Daddy…'" A pause. His voice elevated a few octives. "'I'm going to kill the bad guy, daddy.'" Dr. Taggert turned to bury his face in Owen's shoulder letting out a fresh sob.

"We called cancer the bad guy because it had taken her mother. She wanted to kill the bad guy."

Owen felt the tears, himself, but remained silent. It was a long few moments before the elder doctor had slumped back and regained his voice.

"My hero." He whispered, finally.

It was strange. Hollow. Like the tone a corpse might use, if they could.

And that was it.

Dr. Taggert rose, stood a moment, turned and stared at the stained glass window.

And then he walked away.

Not a word more. So surreal. His footsteps down the hall and then out into the foyer and out the door. Owen sat, not quite sure how to wrap his mind around the last…what?...hour? It felt as though time had stopped, what with the rollercoaster ride of emotions from abject fear to relief and then suddenly to grief and heartache. Owen was exhausted. He rose shakily to his feet. This town. These people. What had he stumbled into?

The cane extended and the young doctor left the office. Out into the breezy, rainy night air. He filled his lunges with it. That strange air. That feeling of 'something more' resonating in its depths. It could have just been the circumstances of the evening, but Owen wasn't so sure. Two days in Forks, Washington, and whenever he combated the place with logic and reason, it seemed to retaliate with a violent passion. As if the place, itself, was crying out…

I AM MORE.

Fingertips to his forehead and then down to his chest and across from side to side. The sign of the cross and then up to his lips.

 _God help you, Dr. Taggert._

 _God help me._


	3. Chapter 3 - Burning Heaven

**March 13th, 2006  
**

* * *

Chapter 3: Burning Heaven

A howl nearby. The sound like a peel of thunder. It rattled his insides, shook his stomach 'til he was stumbling…crashing to his knees…heaving into the brush. Blink blink. Dead brush that he could see. He looked up at the forest all around him. His eyes went wide. How-…? Another long baying cry. Owen didn't know why, but his body responded, almost of its own accord. Up and scrambling away. Running through the trees. The wind tore past him with a force to press against his progress. It spat rain at him. And nevertheless, he ran. Legs pumped wildly. Because somewhere behind him it came.

Owen hazarded a glance back over a shoulder and was greeted by the sight of blackness. Emptiness. Like the gaping maw of a titanic creature. It seemed to stretch out into oblivion. Or maybe it was oblivion. Maybe this was death.

The howl. Beside him. Just off the peripheral.

The young doctor banked hard to avoid the low arm of a tree and caught a log, instead. His foot impacted. He went tumbling forward, head over heels, down a steep decline of the landscape until a trunk mercilessly ended the fall. Owen couldn't breathe. He lay, gasping, body bent near in-half across the body of the tree. And it somehow felt…familiar. As if he'd already lived the pain.

A growl from the blackness. Owen clawed like an animal at the ground, the agony of torn ligaments and broken bones drowned by the panic of adrenaline.

 _Run._

He did. Carried by gravity down the slope. He had to get away before the inky nothing swallowed him the same way it had swallowed the world. Though every part of him demanded he fall down and die, Owen gritted his teeth in defiance. Not a chance. He let out his own growl as he forced his broken body to work.

Past the small creak he had splashed through hours ago with his father- …but, wait, that wasn't right…

Across a path paved by cyclists - ...how did he remember that?...

A clearing in the woods...

Owen's heart skipped a beat. Yes. The clearing. It opened up just ahead of him. The full moon bathed it in welcoming light and somehow he knew the monster at his heels could not go there. He pressed forward. The rain beat down, despite the canopy of leaves high overhead. Ten more feet. Eight more feet. The thing behind him was gaining ground. He could feel the rush of its breath on his back, a hot wind in opposition to the chill at his face. It would eat the ground and then he'd fall into the black and all the sights would be gone. Owen's eyes burned with tears. _No._ He grabbed branches on his way past to help propel him on to the light. Four feet away. Something tore at his back. He cried out as claws ripped through fabric and flesh. A lazy arc of talons that sliced from shoulder-blade to lower back. Owen toppled forward…into the clearing…into the promised sanctuary of its golden light.

Breath stopped up by a bubbling of blood that swelled the lunges.

It didn't matter.

He choked on a laugh. A wonderful, heady, rush of triumph as he laid there, coughing up his life onto the grass. The sweet, green grass. How he had missed the color. Like a pool of emerald. Owen smiled. Yes. Let this be death. Not the black behind him. Not the faux-colored shapes of his blindness. Let him end, right there, in the golden light and green of the clearing with the rain on his face. Everything was beginning to get hazy. The blur of unconsciousness. He tried to look up but couldn't see the sky, past the brilliance of moonlight. He didn't feel the pain. It would be over soon.

Just the light of the moon. Spreading. Filling the eyes. He shut them.

…light…

Blink blink.

Wait…

Light and colors overhead. Shapes. He looked around. Everywhere the same.

Endless…infinite…

No…NO NO NO NO

And then a hand.

Owen stared in horror as the clawed thing reached towards him. A pale, sparkling hand in the light…

 _"Like it had been painted with diamonds."_

CRACK! The burst of thunder.

A quick jerk of the body and Owen was sitting bolt-upright…panting, trembling. His fists wild and batting at the hand that was no longer there. It took a moment. Instincts warred with dawning reason. It was just a nightmare. Calm down. He had to talk himself through it.

"Easy, now. You're in your apartment. There's nothing here."

And slowly, he did relax. A gradual lessening of the fight that tightened his muscles until Owen was eased back into bed. He laid there. Eyes open to the emptiness. Like most nightmares, it was a fading thing; all except the rush of feelings. He had dreamed of his childhood. The woods. The running from the black. His therapists had called it a byproduct of the trauma suffered during the accident, the one that had broken his little body and eventually stolen his sight.

 _"It's a form of processing the situation, Owen. Your mind is making the circumstances of the accident into a villain."_

The black was blindness. He would run as fast as he could but always end up broken on the tree. And it would come and swallow him.

 _A bit pretentious, don't you think, Mind?_

It was telling him there was no escape. The black was the villain. But the strangest thing…

It never used to howl. And the white hand was clearly some subconscious cue to avoid any more Mama Buck stories.

Owen patted at the end-table, found his phone and asked for the time.

"4:53am," came a chipper, mechanical response from his VoiceOver app. "Temperature, outside, is 47 degrees Fahrenheit with rain chances at 97 percent. Your high today is-"

He clicked the device off.

Well. It was apparently going to be an early, wet morning.

Again.

xXXx

It had been four days since his arrival in Forks, three since the evening with Dr. Taggert. And it felt like a lifetime ago. Blame the depths of details in need of management. It stole his attention from morning to night: connecting with the Chamber of Commerce, introducing himself at the favored community haunts, reassuring everybody of his role as partner and not replacement. It was a common theme, the unspoken question behind each hesitated conversation: _"Is Dr. Taggert coming back?"_ Owen didn't know. But rather than worry everyone, he kept carefully optimistic. _"I'm just here to hold down the fort as he takes some much needed time for himself."_ The sentiments seemed to help and the discussion would eventually lead back around to himself. Being a blind professional in a small town elicited a great deal of curiosity.

Thus it went through the weekend and on through most of Monday morning. Jan Riley had called to request one more day to care for her youngest child, who'd come down with a fever.

 _"Of course, Jan. I have plenty to do here. Take your time."_

And then Owen sat back in his new office, hand rested atop a mound of files left on Dr. Taggert's desk. Without her eyes and experience, he had no real way of getting down to the business of business, but there was no pushing the issue. Owen's first priority was to build trust. Bills would get paid. The clientele would come. The most important thing was to take care of the people. It was something Dr. Taggert had impressed upon him throughout their many communications. "Others above self, Owen. That's our business." It stuck with him throughout his years in residency.

Owen stretched out and gave a long yawn. Best to make something of the Monday. He decided it was time to acquaint himself with the actual work. Business was all well and good, but he did not become a chiropractor for the sole purpose of being a business professional. _"Others above self."_ He shouldered the bag containing his portable table and headed out the door.

There was a break in the weather. A light dusting of wet, rather than the normal drizzle. It felt nice against his face. Owen made it to The Lodge just in time to catch the afternoon crowd. He'd been there a few times, made acquaintances with the staff. Would they mind if he setup in the corner, out of the way, to offer some complimentary massages? It was an aspect of practice unique to his brand of chiropractic services, the coupling of massage with the traditional trade. And what had been a simple excuse to practice became a full-blown attraction. People lined up. A number system was devised to keep the folks in their seats and out of the walkway. New contacts were made. Some prior connections were better solidified.

"You're a saint, Doc."

Owen chuckled, kneading through a particularly troublesome knot in Officer Swan's shoulder. He'd entered with a friend, a man named Harry, who sat across from them, awaiting his turn.

"Must be good work," Harry's voice had an old, melodic quality, flecked with the traces of an accent, "Charlie only ever gets religious when the Nationals are playing. How'd all that praying work out for you, last season?"

The officer groaned. Harry laughed and it was infectious. Owen felt a smile lifting his lips. Easy conversation. It was refreshing. So often there was an almost tangible measure of uncertainty that infected most his interactions with others. How does one engage with a blind man? Why does he keep looking around like that? He could guess at most the reasons for discomfort and did not blame the casual acquaintance. Still. It made for a lonely life at times. Knowing there would always be that wall of distraction between himself and the world.

But not with these two. Somehow, everything was just so…normal.

"Hey, do you watch baseball, Owen?" Harry asked. And then Charlie burst out laughing and Owen was laughing and Harry was hurrying for an apology. "No! I mean, you know, do you follow a team or-…sometimes I listen to the games-…um…"

"Keep digging." Charlie lifted himself from the table to make room for his grumbling friend.

"I'm a fan of the Packers."

It was enough to unite the two older men in a chorus of boos. Talk of football dominated most of the next ten minutes with Owen dropping out mid-way. Something he felt in the elder man's upper spine...his smile had gone.

"Mr. Clearwater?"

No response as Harry and Charlie delved deep into the effects of Hurricane Katrina on the Superdome. Owen sealed his lips in concentration, trailing the vertebrae from shoulder to mid-back.

"Everything ok, doc?" Charlie's voice. The laughter had gone from it, as well. He heard it, hard and clear and Owen hesitated. What he had felt…the misalignment at the top of the spine…a shake of the head. Part of his residency had included research work conducted on the effects of an unhealthy spine on internal organs…with an emphasis on the heart. But it had just been quantitative research. Nothing solid.

"You know, it's probably nothing."

Nothing to cause unnecessary concern…

"There's some irregularity in the upper five thoracic vertebrae."

"What's that mean?" Charlie pressed.

"Just an alignment issue." The heart. All the cases he had read of heart disease and pericardium conditions involved those vertebrae. But no. The last thing Owen wanted was to be the new doctor who spread panic everywhere he went, especially when it was just a hunch. The war inside went masked by his best, calming smile. "Maybe stop by the office when you get a chance and I'll take a better look."

"Good sell, doc," Harry teased.

Owen cringed. He wasn't there angling for new clients. Before he had the chance to articulate a defense, however, Harry was there for the rescue.

"Hey, listen, March Madness is at my place, this year. You should come." Owen's next appointment was already making herself comfortable on the table. He nodded, giving a wave in farewell as the two men thanked him and moved off to another area of the diner to give room. And as he went through the motions of attentive care, half his mind reeled back to his studies. The five thoracic vertebrae. The feel of their odd placement beneath his fingertips. No. It was too much of a stretch, too flimsy an argument to suggest there was anything more than a simple misalignment.

 _Calm down, Owen._

xXXx

7pm, later that day. Owen stood beside the table affixed to the floor of the office. He had been there since after dinner. Eyes shut. A deep intake of breath. He had been there every night since Dr. Taggert had left him sitting beneath the stained glass window with those last words…

 _"My hero."_

Melody Taggert daughter. Gone. Brutalized.

Owen's palms glided over the slick, weathered material of the table's surface. He imagined the countless people who had laid there beneath the older man's happy ministrations. So many bodies healed. A life affecting lives. _Others above self, Owen._ It seemed morbid to think fate or higher powers or the universe or whatever would conspire so wickedly against such a man. To tear his life from him with hateful violence. Because daughter had been the old father's life. Owen hadn't known Melody, but could guess at who she'd been by the sadness her memory produced in those who spoke of the tragedy. A woman loved by the community…like her father. Owen thought often about them. Every night in fact since he had cried with Dr. Taggert over the senseless tragedy.

There in the dark with his hands on the table and those words like an echo in his ear…

 _"She was my hero."_

Dull, empty, toneless words.

 _"My hero."_

Like a child shocked into awareness about just how ugly the world was:…heroes weren't supposed to be viciously torn apart by monsters.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

Owen startled back a step from the table.

KNOCK KNOCK.

Pounding at the front and then a muffled voice.

"Doctor Reid? Hello?"

Owen navigated to the front and found the door. Outside, a familiar voice.

"It's Harry Clearwater."

The young doctor recovered from his surprise quickly and had the door open before the elder Clearwater could finish his apology. He heard a hesitation. The sounds of a truck idling in the driveway.

"Dr. Taggert usually kept late hours. I was hoping I didn't miss you…"

Owen hadn't technically opened the office since his arrival in Forks, but that wasn't about to stop him from accepting patients, especially one who concerned him.

"How can I help you, Mr. Clearwater?" And the young doctor shifted out of the way to make room for the older man. Instead of entering, Harry turned and walked away, leaving a confused Owen standing awkwardly in the doorway. A minute there and he began to wonder if this was some weird, local initiation. Make random small talk and then just…leave? No. As he strained to listen, Owen heard muffled voices. Harry talking low, but firm. Another voice…higher in tone. Sharp. They were arguing.

"You won't go to the hospital, so you're going to let the doctor look at you!" Harry was getting louder.

"I told you! It's nothing! Let's just go home, ok!?"

"Get out of the truck!"

"Dad!"

"OUT!"

The door opening. The splash of feet hitting a puddle as the woman exited the truck. And Owen stood, still unsure of what to do…besides stand there.

"I'm fine!" She snapped.

Two sets of feet walking up to the office. Their voices were dropping in volume, though no less in vehemence. And by the time both had made it to the doorway, Owen was re-thinking the whole concept of Dr. Taggert's late hours. They stepped past him, taking a moment to wipe shoes on the entrance mat and then stood together, practically radiating with conflict.

Owen shut the door, said a prayer, affixed his best professional smile and turned to face the pair.

"This is the guy?" There in the quiet of the foyer, the doctor caught every note. The flat, unimpressed tone. The deeper layer of challenge. Maybe it would have been better to speak outside where the patter of rain could have masked a bit of the obvious ire.

"Leah!"

Owen could almost hear the crossing of her arms in defiance.

"I'm sorry doctor," Harry went on, "she's been in pain for the past few days and we can't figure it out. My wife has tried all sorts of things, but it's getting worse."

"It's not that bad!"

"You were up all night moaning and complaining about it, last night!"

"I'll sleep out in the truck, if it's bothering you!"

"You know we're not going to let you do that!"

"I don't need a doctor!"

Back and forth, back and forth until Owen raised a hand and interjected.

"I'm not a doctor." And that was enough to win the floor. "Not in the traditional sense," he went on, careful to keep momentum 'lest father or daughter saw an opportunity to start up again, "I can't prescribe medication. I can't perform surgeries. I can help alleviate pain and even eliminate it, sometimes. If that's something you're interest in, I'm happy to perform a quick evaluation and then you can decide whether or not you'd like to continue with treatment."

Owen listened for some cue that his words had eased the moment. What he received was a strong clap on his shoulder, a grateful, "Yep. That's it. Thanks, doc." And suddenly the elder Clearwater was out the door and beating a retreat before his daughter could object. "I gotta go pick up your brother from the movies."

It happened so fast.

"Be back in twenty!" He called to them as the truck rolled away.

And then there Owen stood…alone and feeling less a doctor and more a sacrifice to the rage demon not three feet away. He could almost feel it, like waves of fire ready to burn him. _Thanks Harry._

"So…"

"I DON'T NEED THIS!"

Owen took an involuntary step back. The anger…her voice...

"THERE'S NOTHING WRONG WITH ME!"

The grit of teeth. The snarl. It was like something…

"Tell him I found my own way home."

Something feral.

The doctor listened as the woman in front of him turned and stormed out into the gathering storm, outside. He listened to her anger play out down the steps. Stomp stomp stomp. Out into the rain. THWAP! A kick at the mailbox post. She cursed it and then her father and then the rain. Streams of curses that faded as she walked away. Leah was intending to walk home, no doubt. And he was intending to let her. All up until he heard a dull thud…and the faintest wisp of a groan…

 _Damn it._

Owen hurried out onto the porch of the office.

"Leah?"

Nothing. Car horns in the distance. The ever-tap of rain.

Wait…

There it was. Another low moan just ahead of him.

Owen felt his way down the walkway until her voice was just at his feet; the long, low note of pain. He knelt, felt her jacketed shoulder and then traveled his touch down her pants to her shoe…a sudden tensing. She'd probably hurt it in the kick and then tripped as she stumbled away. A measure of sympathy left with the thought but then returned a moment later when Owen brushed her arm and felt an intense heat.

"You're burning up." He gently, carefully, slipped his arms beneath her to help her up and was met with a shove.

"I can walk," she hissed. And he eased back to give her room to rise. More grunts and groans. Owen felt his patience wearing thin, that spark of resentment at her consistent stubbornness. Couldn't she give it a rest? Leah stood. A wavering, trembling stand that had her shooting a hand out to his lowered shoulder for balance.

A hitch of breath.

Pain…

He hated it. He hated hearing it.

"Damn it," Owen stood, saw her strong-will and raised the ante with a bit of his own. His arms found her body, once more. And up she went in a strong, tight cradling which was met with immediate struggle.

"Leave me alone! I'm fine!"

Her muscles tense. Her skin on fire. There wasn't much real fight, past the words. So Owen carefully made his way back to the porch, jaw set, woman in arms. She was wet. They were both soaked. Nevermind. What registered more were his trained instincts calculating and measuring of their own accord. Tightness like an animal prepped for fight. The fever…

"You need to calm down."

"Like hell!" More bursts of effort to get free. "Put me down!"

Owen locked his grip, his own muscles swelling with the strain, vice-like and telling; _no way_. If he put her down, she'd likely make it about as far as she did before collapsing again. No way. She may have been a literal handful, but his nature demanded he at least get her out of the rain and keep her safe until Harry could return. At which point, Owen would gladly hand the woman over.

Until then, though…

Up the steps they went and back into the office. And then through the foyer and into the back to the examination room.

"Kidnapping?" She gave another frustrated jerk of the body, but to no avail. On to the antagonism. "Is this what they teach you in Fake Doctor School? Keep the business by keeping the clients. Literally. Lock them up against their will and-"

Owen bumped into Dr. Taggert's old work table and then unceremoniously dropped Leah onto it. THUD. Another groan.

"Shut up." He said…quite professionally. "You're sick. You're hurt." _And you're kind of a jerk._ Thankfully he kept that last part to himself. "There's no way you're walking back to the reservation. Call your dad." Owen pulled out his cell. "I'm going to call the emergency room to let them know you're on your way…"

"NO!" And for the first time, there was something more than anger sharpening her words. Softer. Tempered. "Please…" Fear.

It was enough to catch the young doctor's attention, halt the call.

"I'm sorry, ok?" Said through clenched teeth. "Just don't..."

There was silence, a long chasm between them. Outside, the wind had picked up to add force to the storm. He heard it. And the thunder.

"You're not well," he finally said. She must have been watching his hand, because when he slipped the phone back into a pocket, there came an audible sigh of relief and the sound of her easing back onto the table. Leah didn't respond beyond those cues. And Owen let it be, opting instead to cash in a bit of the earned goodwill. He hesitantly drifted a hand over her forehead, palm pressed gently there to feel the warmth. Concern once again etched its way across his face. She was watching, no doubt. Ware, sick eyes following his every move.

"Leah, I'd like to check a few things."

No response.

"I have some workout clothes I'm going to go change into. I believe there's a robe and some towels across from you." He heard her head tilt to look. "The lamp switch is near the door. When you're comfortable, let me know. I'll be right on the other side of the partition."

Again no words. Owen took that to mean she was at least considering the suggestion. He went to leave but was stopped short by a grip on his wrist…an oddly gentle grip…

"No hospital. No meds."

"I'm just going to check your spine."

Her hold lasted a second more and then it was gone. He heard her lift up. The unmistakable shift of material tugged from the body. Owen couldn't see but that didn't stop the faint flush reddening his cheeks. He turned quickly to shut the door as more wet clothes hit the ground. And only then, out of the presence of the woman, did the young doctor finally take in the deep, steadying breath that had eluded him since walking her back into the office.

His back to the faux wall. Hands run back through his wet hair. _What the hell had just happened?_ The last ten minutes replayed through his mind. Harry and Leah in his office so late in the evening. His retreat. Her fire. It was crazy. The whole thing like a novel…

He recalled the sounds of her snarling rage, the struggle.

A horror novel maybe?

Owen shuddered. But then couldn't quite banish the other remembrance…

Her lithe frame pressed against him in the fight…

That growl in her voice like an unspoken challenge…

Her hand on his wrist…

A shake of the head. He resolved to get changed, get her out of the office as soon as possible and then get some sleep. Because obviously there was some exhaustion at work. A trail of the hand down the wall to feel his way to the office where dry clothes awaited. And as he stripped his own wet things, thoughts that should have been directed to the clinical matter at hand went straying back to her words in anger…the unusual quality of them, unlike anything he'd ever heard…

Feral. Primal.

Her skin, so feverish. But her muscles, full of fight.

Leah Clearwater.

 _Who are you?_

* * *

Reference: Harry Clearwater's heart problems in New Moon, Chapter 10.


	4. Chapter 4 - An Ethereal Thread

**March 13th, 2006  
**

Later that evening...

* * *

Chapter 4: An Ethereal Thread

The office was cold. The whole building had been cold, though Owen hadn't noticed until he traded out his soaked jeans and button-down for his gym clothes. Soft cotton sweat pants and a sleeveless shirt. Nice when lifting because the material was out of the way, but certainly not the warmest attire…nor the most professional. But what about any of the past ten minutes had been professional? He had practically dragged a woman, kicking and growling, into his office. She lay in the room across from him, stripped of her own wet clothing. The two alone together, late into the after-hours of work. It was a legal nightmare waiting to happen.

But then he heard it…the softest catch of breath from the other room…a whimper of pain, bit back through sheer will…

Owen was up and moving on instinct, hand up and feeling the length of wall that separated them. Back to the examination room. He gave the door a gentle rap with his knuckles.

"Leah?"

No answer.

"Is it ok to come in?"

"Ye-…" He heard the word go clipped and end in a sharp exhale. A pause. "Yes." She said again with all the control of one forcing the word through clenched teeth.

Owen took his own steadying breath and then entered.

His senses worked in unison to paint the picture. The chill in the air. The scent of her damp clothes. Droplets beneath his feet. There were the muffled sounds of the storm, of course, but also her restlessness upon the table. He listened as Leah shifted about uncomfortably and made his way to her side. A hand eased down to rest upon her shoulder…bare…burning with fever…

More instincts at work. Almost without thought, he clicked on the diffuser next to the table and began a circulation of calming, earthen fragrances.

"Breathe deep…" He whispered.

His hands found the coconut oil nestled on a nearby shelf. He should have asked about allergies and gone through the extensive, requisite pre-check but there was no time. Something about the feel of her demanded immediacy. Owen closed his blind eyes, sinking deep into the subtleties of his profession. Touch. Connection. Empathy. He took his own orders, filled his lunges with the soothing blend of Tangerine, Orange, Ylang Ylang, Patchouli and German Camomile and set his hands upon her.

It hit like a punch, the rush of contact. The sensation of physical empathy. And it was like he could feel every spasm wracking her body. The warmth of her flesh. He reacted as any might, met by such extremes. A gentle, caressing glide of palms over her shoulders. _Easy, now._ A touch like his mother's, when he had been in the back of the ambulance headed for emergency surgery. _It's ok…it's ok._ And he felt her slightest release of tension, the way his little broken body had relaxed beneath the ministrations of his mother.

Just the barest hint of ease before she suddenly and almost violently tensed back up. Her breath caught with the fresh wave of pain. And it was stark enough to startle him, as well. His caress quit. He left his hands to feel out the literal waves of agony.

 _God. God, Leah…what's happening to you?..._

She moaned.

Too many sensations to process.

It was like her muscles were being shocked from the inside. The tightness like contractions in labor. But more. Owen's brows etched with confusion and hurt for her hurting. No matter how difficult she might have been upon first introduction, this gave horrific context. Owen pulled himself from the initial shock and forced himself to apply a bit of perspective. Hesitation wasn't what she needed at the moment. _Do something._ The young doctor drifted his fingertips down, tracing the muscles of her back…clear, distinct striations, cut deeper by lines of anomalies in the skin. Scars? Down the dip of her back to the lower muscles, to the edge of robe pushed back and covering her lower half.

He simply let it be that for the length of her pain, his touch, his unspoken promise of presence. She wasn't alone. The scent of the essential oils. The glide of his hands. The sounds of the storm. He felt Leah let go. No longer the taut pull of the unknown agony, instead he felt the tremor of tears, shaking her slender frame. He could have guessed Leah Clearwater was not one to cry and especially not in front of a stranger. It spoke volumes of her ordeal, tempered his guard until he was open and there with her, without reservation.

"Shhh," the softest encouragement. Owen fell back into his caressing rhythms. And some part of him, that part typically held back in the formal processes, slipped through, opening awareness to things past the professional. Like the unique way her body seemed to fit in his hands. A spread of fingers out to her sides. His thumbs touched at her lower back and it was the perfect placement of his palms to press gently, there, on either side of the spine and feel her body respond. The easing of the muscles. The take to his give. Owen did nothing more than ease the elements of massage into their moment.

Her powerful back, releasing itself to his contact.

"Mmmmm…" Her softest affirmation of the work, working.

Why was his heart skipping beats in response? Where had the cold of the room gone? He felt warmth across his face. A flush. And his throat felt dry.

Nevermind.

Owen doubled down on his training. A recitation of the steps to fight back those odd sensations of something secret _. Loosen the muscles. Relax the body. Assess the layers. What are the layers, Owen?_ A brush of fingertips up her shoulders, up her neck, through her hair to work the tension at the scalp. Shoulder length hair, rich in waves, even in its damp state. _Focus._ He shook his head. _Ok. No abnormalities upon initial inspection. Her spine indicates some posture problems._ He smiled, guessing at her sight. Her strong body, maybe hunched over at meals, guarding her food. Or lazily curved in a coach. Reading? Was she a reader? The mind conjured images as his hands worked. Restful, peaceful images that never quite seemed to fit until he brought his attention down to her arms.

That was it.

Power. Strength. Will. Fight. Thoughts turned to those arms up and whipping through the air at a punching bag. Her shoulders, tight and shrugged upwards in a defensive stance. Pop. Pop. SLAM. Yes. That was this woman. A warrior in his hands…

A warrior who apparently snored. She had fallen asleep. Owen stifled a chuckle.

But what was the cause for her pain? He swung back and forth from dreamer to clinician. Maybe something psychological?

"No…not again…" Leah moaned. Her body began to tighten. She sucked in a sharp breath. And Owen snapped back to the present, applying pressure against the oncoming pressure. His hands into fists and the knuckles pressed into her lower back. She bit at the cushion of the table to keep from crying out and, instead, gave a long, low growl. A mumble past her teeth. The young doctor couldn't make it out.

"HARDER!" She damn-near roared at him. And he bore down on her back, pushing damn-near through her. It was a war. A battle of the external against the internal until it all passed away after minutes that seemed like an eternity. By the end, beads of sweat lined his brows and she was panting. When he felt her release from the grip of whatever it was that continued to tear her up, inside, Owen settled back onto his nearby stool.

"Well…" after a moment, "that was intense."

He received no words. Just the one hand he couldn't see as it raised slowly from the table. And a middle finger extended in reply. She let the hand drop.

"I think you should consider a trip to the ER."

"Pansy," she muttered tiredly.

It brought the old smile back to Owen's lips. Nevertheless, he pressed on with his recommendation, "Leah, this is…I've never come across anything like it."

He heard the creak of the table. She slowly lifted herself up, hissing at intervals.

"I'm going home."

And that was it. Owen knew there was no argument sound enough, nor warning grave enough to dissuade the stubborn woman. He heard her ginger, tentative step across the room.

"If you won't wait for your dad, at least let me call you a cab."

A hesitation. And then…

"Ok."

"Ok," the younger doctor rose from his seat. "I'll give you some privacy. If it gets bad again, I'll be just across the hall."

Owen made to leave, hand outstretched and feeling his way back to the doorway, but suddenly there came a grip at his arm…a grip gentler than he might have expected. How had she made it to him so fast…and so quietly? He hadn't heard her move. The questions went put aside as other realizations took unbidden precedence. That hand on his arm…her touch…her whisper…

"Thank you."

It was odd the way the words happened…as if spoken like a secret. As if the warrior woman had dipped her guard, just a second, to speak those words. So simple a thing. And yet it communicated volumes that a casual articulation of gratitude came at such a cost. More questions. More mystery. Owen did not have much time to ponder, because as quick and sincere as it had been, the walls returned. Her touch disappeared. He heard her steps back to her wet clothes.

"Jan has my address. Send the bill, there."

"No need," Owen tried.

He heard the robe slip from her shoulders and turned, more out of respect than necessity.

"Send the bill."

The young doctor left, making his way back to his office. There, he located his phone and had a cab called within the minute. Grunts and grumbles and groans provided a consistent backdrop until it sounded like Leah had successfully navigated her re-dressing. And then footsteps padded away to the foyer. Owen seriously considered remaining in the back and letting her slip away. She'd probably appreciate it. All the mess of the evening. She was probably hoping for a smooth, silent escape.

A mischievous smile…

A second later, he was round the corner to the entryway. "So, I figure I'll put you down for Wednesdays. Same time. We can skip the whole storming out into the storm…"

But there was no one there. The door was open. The rain had let up from a wash to a drizzle. He listened. Nothing but that metronomic tap of water on earth.

Leah Clearwater was gone.

The cab pulled up ten minutes later. Owen dismissed it and fifteen after that, the sounds of a growling truck engine revved up the drive. The doctor sat outside beneath the overhang of the deck. He sat, head settled back against the wall. Lips slightly lifted in private musing.

Two sets of boots on gravel. Two doors shutting. "Hey doc, how is she?" Harry made it to Owen's side with someone else on his heels. His son, no doubt. But before the doctor could respond, another vehicle had made its way to the chiropractic office. It parked somewhere beside Harry's truck. A familiar voice called out.

"Harry…you keep losing your things…" Officer Swan. "I found her down on Main. Saw you turn in here and figured a ride to La Push might be better than the walk."

More noises. More doors opening and shutting and boots stomping about the drive.

And then her voice.

"Can we go home, now?"

Owen couldn't hide the chuckle. He lifted a hand to try, but Harry's boy had apparently seen it. Because the young guy joined in, building a moment of quiet, shared understanding. The youngest Clearwater patted Owen's shoulder.

"I'm sorry she's crazy."

"Seth, come on," came Harry's voice, who sounded like he was distractedly wrapping up a final thank you and goodbye to Charlie.

"And I'm sorry my dad ambushed you with her."

"No problem."

"Have a peaceful night." Seth said, walking away, back to the truck. "And then tell me what that's like some day."

The doctor rose to step forward and wave his own farewells. Not a word more from Leah. The vehicles rolled out, signaling an end to the eve'.

And what a night it had been. Memory of the past hour played like an old record, distant and tinny and stark in places that etched deepest in the mind. Like the feel of her in his arms as he carried her into the office. The slender curve of her back. Owen rubbed at his temples. _Stop now. Leah is a patient._ Yes. A supremely frustrating, complicated, beautifully mysterious patient. _Seriously?_ The young doctor chalked it up to lack of sleep and promised himself not a thought more to her or their strange night together. Best to focus on what was next. Jan would be back soon. The office would begin in earnest. There'd be no more of the epic. No more mysteriously afflicted women writhing on his table in the middle of the night. No more holding them through the pain…no more of their burning heat beneath his fingertips…no more of their scent like fresh herbs…and her voice…and her hand on his arm…and her-

 _Damn it. Cold shower time._

Knock knock knock.

The doctor paused with mop in-hand, soaking up the last of the puddles in the lobby area. Given his recent thread of thinking, a small part of him imagined a dripping Leah, back in the doorway. Maybe back to apologize for the mess of the evening? Maybe back to setup that next appointment? _Maybe back to throw her arms around your neck and quip about love and destiny?...'Cause this is your own personal Sandra Bullock movie, right, Owen?_ The doctor rolled his eyes at himself, buried the teenage-esque hormones and went to answer the door.

"Hey doc." It was Officer Swan's voice…his typical, easy-going tone subtly different and flecked with something serious. Tense. Hesitant.

"I just got a call…"

Something was wrong.

Charlie cleared his throat. The young doctor heard him lift a hand to rub at the back of his neck. Cues layered upon each other to build a foundation of obvious concern.

"It's…it's about Dr. Taggert…"


	5. Chapter 5 - Mortality Descending

**March 14th, 2006**

* * *

Chapter 5: Mortality Descending

Buzz and hum and beep and the constant whirring of machinery; it was like a mechanical language that refused to cease. There were metronomes of sound. Constant rhythms mixed with a whole other world of human chaos. Voices. A hundred feet on the floor. Doors opened and shut and curtains drew back and forth on their metal rails. Laughter. Shouts. Screams. All layered atop the hospital's industrial tongue, a pulsing vocabulary that promised only one thing: reality.

Because when a person entered a hospital, there really wasn't anything else. Mortality was present in every facet of the place, from life taken, to life preserved, to life sustained. A man met his inevitable in the setting. Likely a reason some stayed away, even in the desperate times. Better not to leave the illusions of safety. Better not to face the reality of eventual end. The buzz and hum and thrum and laughter and weeping and beep beep beep...beep...beep…

Owen held his head in his hands. Eyes shut. Breath steady. Mind and heart taxed beyond reason 'til there was only semi-conscious awareness. He'd been by Dr. Taggert's side for over twelve hours listening to the machines talk about his beloved mentor in their merciless language. Beep...beep...beep. Perhaps it was the delirium of shock but something in the sound felt so wrong, so mocking. That the man's life had been reduced to a simple noise.

Dr. Taggert…

There were no more tears to cry. So, instead, Owen sat and listened and considered and in the worst moments, he imagined. The noose around the old man's neck. Owen inadvertently gulped past the thought. But it led to others, of course. A flash of the scene as told to him by Charlie during the drive to the hospital.

It was a Motel 6 in nearby Piedmont. There'd been a mix-up at the hotel office. The cleaning lady had entered late and found him hanging...screams...the blare of sirens…POP! "Clear!"..."Hit him again!"...

The imagination could be a cruel place.

However the actual events occurred, the end result was the same. Dr. Taggert lay in the bed, body broken, life pumped into him by machines. "A vegetative state," someone had murmured nearby before being shushed and ushered out of the room. And that's what Owen's world had been left with. He'd received the call from his mother, when she found out. Not a word from his father. Charlie had promised to drop back in after his shift. A few other calls from others who'd known by Dr. Taggert and Owen. Eventually the rush of the scene had died to nothing except the young doctor's vigilant presence in the room, when allowed, and out in the lobby, when asked. Twelve hours.

A buzz at his leg whipped a dosing Owen back to the present. He pulled his phone and answered it:

"Hello?"

"Dr. Reid…" It was an older woman's voice...familiar, clipped, strained with emotion.

"Hello, Jan."

"How-..." There was a hiccup of sob. "I heard…"

"I'm so sorry, Jan."

And then he listened to her tears as they came. He listened quietly, giving her all the time she needed as she cried into the phone. When she was spent, when he heard the tell-tale collection of breath and resolve, Owen listened more as she described the past few months and how it all was too much. First Megan and now Dr. Taggert. Her son had almost watched Charlie's girl get crushed by a vehicle in the high school parking lot, the year before.

"...this town, Dr. Reid...it's like…" A hitched breath. "Like all of a sudden...it's just...cursed..."

The word struck Owen for some reason. He sat up a bit straighter in his seat. Jan's voice grew stronger. A decision had been made.

"We're not coming back to Forks, Dr. Reid. We are staying with my sister. I'm sorry if it sounds crazy, but-"

"Jan-"

"No, Dr. Reid! I will not go back, OK!? I'm sorry if that puts you and the business in a difficult position but I will not allow my family to ever set foot in that town, again!"

"Jan, it's ok," he said gently. "I completely understand. And you're not crazy."

"I'm not?" Her voice was small, like a child seeking validation.

"You've been through a lot. No one is judging you. Please don't worry about the business." A pause to muster his own strength.

"I have everything covered," the young doctor lied.

"Dr. Reid…"

"Yes?"

Silence for a long moment. Owen almost wondered if the call had dropped.

"Please…" Jan finally whispered. "Please leave Forks...please get out while you can…"

And that was it. She was gone.

* * *

 **March 16th, 2006**

* * *

It was a strange, almost disconnected haze that set about Forks. Sure, life happened and it happened in its relentless way but there was a sort of malaise beneath the surface. The not quite so pep in a happy person's 'hello'. The hesitance of a 'Chatty Cathy'. Mama Buck served him with her usual joy, though it was clear there were less assumptions made in conversation, more care in keeping the coffee talk unobtrusive. Owen might have appreciated it, save for the near-tangible levels of discomfort radiating from her, from those at the diner, from everyone except…

"'Nother one, doc?"

Charlie stood with Owen outside the office, beer in-hand, ease in the conversation. It had been two days since Owen's stay with Dr. Taggert and Charlie had been there each night after his shift. Harry and Seth had joined them the first day, but it was Charlie's consistency that brought a measure of much needed peace. They drank a few beers and they talked about Dr. Taggert and his family. They traded stories. They laughed. They poked fun at him. And they lifted their drinks to him and his daughter's memory. Two nights of normal.

"Where's Harry?" Owen asked, accepting the proffered bottle.

"Oh, he's off being old."

"Sounds nice."

Charlie laughed, a rich, sincere few notes. "All except for the gut and need t' piss every other hour at night."

"You should probably get that checked out."

Both chuckled and nursed a sip or two, letting the sounds of the night own the next few moments. Charlie was considering something. It may have only been a few interactions between them but already Owen was picking up some of the tells. The old officer liked to think before he spoke. It was refreshing, given most people's inclination to the opposite. So Owen let the words come without pressing and listened intently when they did.

"Harry…" Owen could imagine a distant smile, a thoughtful look in the officer's eyes, "Most stubborn man I know...aside from myself."

And the two men shared a smile.

"But I guess ya gotta be, what with the pack he's got himself."

There was a sudden snarl at the back of his mind, a stray flash of memory, come and gone in an instant. Owen blinked, brows furrowed. A shake of the head to clear it. He forced a quick chuckle in response.

"Yeah," he said. "Quite the handful."

"You have no idea," Charlie patted his arm, a farewell gesture. "Seeya doc."

Owen waved his goodbye. It was part of their unspoken ritual the past few nights: a few beers and an exit. Nothing more. Nothing less. But the young doctor barely registered that night's parting as he eased back into the porch chair and worked through the strange assault of things. It was the buzz of the beer, most likely. His tired mind and the myriad of emotions his heart navigated every day since Dr. Taggert's attempted suicide.

A pause.

No...no, if he was being honest, it all started hours before…in the dark of the office...in the burn of her skin...and the growl of her voice…

 _...please get out while you can..._

Owen rubbed at his face.

Too much beer. He'd always been a bit of a light-weight. He set the bottle down at his feet and then leaned back to take in the night as only a man like Owen Reid could, with the fullness of every functioning sense. The chill of the breeze. The smell of the rain. He could almost taste it. The sounds of Forks humming to an idle. He breathed in deeply.

The baying of a wolf.

Owen turned his ear to the sound. For some reason, the it cut through the din of all else, like a clap of thunder though the cry was obviously far in the distance. It came long and low and moaning and soon joined by others. A chorus of them. The young doctor rose from his seat, drawn forward, the motion sending his bottle tipping over but he didn't care. He stepped up to the edge of the deck, a hand coming to rest at one of the entryway posts. He listened.

That sound…

That agonized howl…

He listened.

As if in echo of the deepest, unspoken things in his heart.

His forehead met the post. It was so oddly relevant, that pitch of purest, primal emotion. Sadness articulated so perfectly. Owen let it wash over his consciousness, wondering absently at the source and the context and all the things that went into prompting an animal's voice. They were such honest creatures. So unlike himself as he choked down the lump in his throat and turned to lock up for the night.

Days later, he would come to think often of the wolf's cry in the night. The timing was coincidence, of course. That the bayful noise would coincide with Harry Clearwater's heart-attack was poetic happenstance and nothing more. Still. It was the only thing he could think of throughout the week's tragic turn. The howling in his mind as he stood outside the crowded funeral home. The howling in his ears like a river's rush, constant in those times he caught himself thinking about the death of the hikers, Mama Buck's story of the white devil, Dr. Taggert, Jan's words…

 _Please...please leave Forks…_

Owen tapped down the lonely streets, a separated man from the present. Because no matter how best his mind rationalized through the twisted turns of the past few weeks, there was no pushing through the assault on his logic. Something was wrong with Forks. He could almost feel it in the air. The howling in his head. A stirred up mess of things so far beyond him.

 _Get out while you can..._

The young doctor went through his days after Harry's funeral alone and back and forth with the decision. His bags were packed at the door. His cell cued to his mother's number. Business had been non-existent. He hadn't spoken with Charlie since the night of Harry's death. The opportunity was wide open for him to leave. The odds were stacked against him.

What reason was there to stay?...

Owen asked himself that question over and over again as he unpacked and then put the advertisement out for Jan's position.

What the hell was he doing?

"Dr. Reid?"

An unfamiliar voice at the office door, late one afternoon. Strong and feminine. Owen made his way from the back to greet the newcomer. Once in the lobby, he heard her steps towards him and felt a tight grip on his hand in greeting.

"My name is Sue Clearwater. I believe you knew my husband…"

* * *

Reference: Harry Clearwater's heart attack, Chapter 16.


	6. Chapter 6 - Diamonds Through Fire

**March 31st, 2006**

* * *

Chapter 6: Diamonds Through Fire

They sat together in the foyer, mugs of warm coffee in their hands, fetched by Sue after Owen had offered. She was proving to be everything the young doctor might have guessed, considering her family: strong, competent, capable, sharp of mind and tongue. He had invited her in and was summarily relegated to the foyer's couch as she went about the preparations for their drinks.

"Sugar?"

"No ma'am."

"Creamer?"

"Straight black, please."

There came an unreadable 'Hm' in reply and moments later she was across from him.

The silence stretched.

And Owen let it, easing back into his seat with the fullest promise of patience. He'd had to learn it years ago. The patience of allowing others to have their hidden moments. In truth, a person's discomfort was often more uncomfortable for the individual than for the young doctor as they attempted to navigate the surreal complications of communicating with a blind man. Most fidgeted, laughed nervously, or did all they could to circumvent the quiet. Some took the time to read Owen like a strange book, unsure and confused.

Sue was none of these. The young doctor was sure of it. Something in the way he heard her shift in her seat. He pictured a new widow staring out the window, caught up in so much more than herself. It was this image that left Owen quiet and contemplative. Respect for the process of the individual in mourning. Whatever was on her mind, whatever had brought her, it would come when she was ready. Owen tipped the bitter liquid to his lips and simply shared the space with her.

"You made quite the impression on my husband," she finally said, tone neutral, voice clear and unwavering. It was tempting to read a million and one things into that statement and build some sort context for her visit but Owen opted to hear the elder Clearwater out.

"He and Charlie really helped me through my first few weeks, here."

The young doctor could almost hear her sad smile.

"You know, he and I went back and forth that night he brought Leah to you. I was trying to get her into the clinic."

Owen nodded, recalling something about Sue's background in the medical field.

"It's not that I don't trust your profession, Dr. Reid," she continued. "I just wanted our doctor to run some preliminary tests."

"I understand." It was well known that some medical professionals looked down upon chiropractic practice. 'New Age,' they dubbed it. 'A step above massage.' Owen had heard it all and grasped Sue's hesitation. Interesting that Harry had pushed through his wife's opinion to bring Leah.

"Whatever you did, Dr. Reid…" She let out a long, conceding breath, "I don't know. It helped. For the next few days, Leah was...I mean she had her moments but it was...easier…"

Another long pause and then in a quiet voice, something only a touch above a whisper: "Harry was right about you." A wealth could be discerned in those few words, in the way Sue seemed to double over into them. Like a punch to the gut. And it wasn't at all that she was upset about being wrong. Just the opposite, it seemed. The fact that she had so vehemently opposed her husband and then likely not said whatever it was her heart demanded before he was gone - I'm sorry, you're right, it's not important, I love you...I love you, I love you, I love you...

Owen could guess by the simple, soft sniff.

But then the moment passed. Sue cleared her throat.

"I'm here, Dr. Reid, because-..." The words weren't there. He heard the thoughts as they formed on her tongue in the starts and stops. Whatever she had come for, it was evident Sue Clearwater did not quite know how to proceed. "I need your help."

At that, the young doctor's brows pulled together with concern. He nodded for her to continue.

"As I said, I respect what you've been able to accomplish with my daughter but...things…" A hitch of breath. Sue drew it back in with an audible, steadying inhale through her nose. "A lot has happened with the passing of my husband."

All understandable, of course. Why was it then that Owen felt the prickling at the nape of his neck, that wash of discomfort...as if her tone betrayed the warning her lips couldn't muster…

"Everything is changing, Dr. Reid. My family is...changing. I need you to understand that."

"Sure," he hesitantly assured after a pause. "What's this about?"

"I'm sorry...I can't let Leah come back for follow-up treatments."

The instant protest was on his lips. His instincts on fire and defenses raised. Wait. What was this? Had he done something wrong? Was it something in the work he'd done? Was this retaliation for his blunt help that evening. His face flushed. Sue had it all wrong, if that was the case. And all her gentle ease into the reason for her visit went disregarded in the moment.

"Mrs. Clearwater, I can assure you my methods are sound."

Gently, "I told you, Dr. Reid. This isn't a commentary on your profession."

"Your daughter was hurting-"

Patiently, "I know. And you helped."

"I did," he bristled, subtext speaking well enough what he felt: that he could continue to help.

"Dr. Reid," he felt a hand in his. A touch like something straight out of memory. That warm, knowing squeeze. A mother's touch communicating a wealth beyond words. It was enough to stay his arguments for the time being. And Sue took that time. She had crossed their distance to sit beside him. Just one word.

"Please." She whispered.

It rang in his ears. It filled his mind. That one pleading word hiding its secret.

 _My family is changing._

Always the secrets.

Had it been anyone other than the grieving widow. Had it been any other time, Owen would have demanded an answer to the questions keeping him up all night, those that seemed to only build with every week he remained in Forks. _What is happening to this town!?_ As it was, the young doctor collected himself. He straightened in his seat.

"Alright, Mrs. Clearwater."

He felt her relax. Her grip softening in his hand.

"I'm not going to pursue any further appointments."

"Thank you," Sue breathed.

"But I want you to know, I won't...can't...turn away a patient. If Leah comes to my office, I will help her any way I can."

She rose, putting distance between them.

"You're a good man, Dr. Reid," but there was a note of weary sadness in her voice. Resignation. As if she'd known his answer all along. He heard her steps away and then out the door and a part of him wondered if he'd missed the very thing he'd just promised. Though it may have not been in so many words, Sue Clearwater had asked for his help. And while this wasn't a matter of healing the body, he might have been able to alleviate some of the stress in her mind with a simple: 'Yes, I'll do what you want'. These were thoughts too little, too late. She was gone. What's done was done. He wouldn't go out of his way to put Leah on rotation. But he also wouldn't deny her a session.

Owen rose, coffee forgotten on an end-table, as he made his way to the door. He stood, listening to the sounds of Sue's car fading into the distance.

xXXx

"Bottom of the ninth, Crowley at bat…"

If there was one thing sorely lacking in Owen's life, it was a bit of good, old fashioned escape. So what was there for a blind man to do in a small town?

"A swing...AND HE TOTALLY MISSED THE BALL AGAIN!…wow, guys..."

Listen to some truly horrific stats as the Forks High School baseball team limped its way through another loss at home. Apparently, it wasn't the most uncommon thing. But to his credit, the announcer did a fairly good job keeping the hope and positivity in his voice throughout the Spartan's 2-12 massacre, even if some of the play-calling was a bit off. Owen imagined the dugout with its line of players hunched over in another anticipated defeat. Poor guys. He raised his overpriced cup of soda to their health and took another bite of hotdog. Oh well. At least the food was good.

To be honest, it could have been the qualifying round for a children's spelling bee and he would have been there. Anything to forgot the office, forgot the past few weeks. He breathed in the scent of the outside, it's ever-hint of rain in the air, and let his senses drown in the 'normal' of his surroundings.

The game finished with a final strike-out by Mike Newton. The kid had played fairly well, putting up one of the evening's points and setting up the other. Owen sat in-place finishing his drink and allowing the noise of the crowd to subside. He had learned early on about the necessity of timing. Timing was everything when it came to his particular set of difficulties. 'Arrive early, leave late' had been the mantra. It ensured easier navigation, less chance for disorientation.

"HI! Excuse me!" A peppy, feminine voice. "Can I help you?"

It also occasionally drew attention.

"I'm sorry, everyone's almost out of here and I noticed you're still sitting here and so I thought maybe you could use some help because...um…because you're...uh...um..."

Owen smiled. She sounded genuine in the slow dawning realization that her words might elicit a touch of defensiveness. Like a slow trudge up the mountain of regret for an eventual, inevitable spiral downward. The young doctor was quick to spare the girl.

"You know, that'd be great. Thank you."

There was no missing the exhale of relief. He rose and offered the crook of his arm, which she took to begin their walk from the stands.

"Owen Reid," he introduced himself, extending his cane to maneuver as they went.

"Jessica," she responded in her chirper way. "Jessica Stanley."

"I think I came through the parking lot. If you can get me to the sidewalk past the vehicles, I can make it from there."

"Sure thing!"

And they were off.

One thing Jessica apparently enjoyed was talking...and doing a lot of it as often as she could to whomever would listen. She talked about the game and giggled about things and generally provided a healthy background to their little jaunt. After hearing all about the team's myriad of other losses and the hilarity of some of Mike's worst moments during said losses, Owen picked up on the trend and easily worked out Jessica's true feelings on the matter. There'd been something with the young Mr. Crowley. Things hadn't gone well. She still had a bit of her heart in the relationship.

It was only ten minutes or so and they were at the sidewalk.

"So, um, you're the new doctor-guy in town, right?" The question came from left-field, seeing as how they'd just been on the topic of Mike's stupid luck in all things sports.

Owen attempted to catch up to the new topic.

"Yes. I'm-...well, yes, I'm the new chiropractor in town."

"RIGHT! 'Cause I saw your ad in the paper and, um…"

And then it all clicked into place. The ad. The random teen girl's random escort after the baseball game. If there was one thing Owen had learned about Forks, most everyone knew most everything...except apparently for him. So it was likely young Jessica had known all along who Owen was. He'd give her the benefit of the doubt that the coincidence of their meetup was just that and not the product of some crazed attempt to secure a position by following him around until a time like the present. No. Jessica seemed more the type to connect the dots in real-time. He was there. She was there. She'd seen the advertisement. Might as well make the case to him.

The young doctor smiled to himself, appreciating the initiative. And while starry-eyed high school girls weren't the optimal hire for the position Jan had vacated, he didn't quite have the leverage to be picky.

"Tell you what," he said after a moment. "I put my e-mail in the ad. Send me over your resume. Any work experience you've had, specifically dealing with office management."

"Uh, well, my mom works at the bank but I-..."

"If you don't have the experience," he continued, anticipating the lack of prior office work, "then try to equate whatever experience you do have with the job description. Take what you know; whether that's babysitting or organizing events at school - whatever organizational work you've done - put that down on paper and show me how I can trust you with client files."

There was a long stretch of silence, the telling kind that meant Jessica was working through her doubts. Was he just overwhelming her to make the point that it would be too much? Was he sincerely looking for her to write up a resume? Owen could guess at her thoughts. And he let her take the time to make her decision. She would either back down and chalk the evening up to an awkward conversation with 'the new doctor-guy', or…

"Ok." The resolution in her voice surprised Owen.

His head lulled to the side a bit in question: "Ok?"

"Yes," Jessica said more firmly, her confidence gaining traction with each passing second. "I'll have that to you by Wednesday."

"I look forward to it." And while his head told him this was all a bit of a long-shot, something in his heart was rooting for the young Jessica to do well. Nothing necessarily in their short time together but more in the familiarity of her story: she wanted a chance...against the obvious obstacles and odds, she wanted a fair shot. And if Jessica was willing to do the work of applying unrelated experience to the job to build her case, Owen saw no harm in hearing her out.

"Thank you, Dr. Reid." She squeezed his arm in farewell before setting off across the street.

The young doctor listened to her go, wondering at the strange set of circumstances that put that interaction together. He stood a long moment in his thoughts and chalked the night up to just another day in crazy 'Forks-land'. His tap-tap-tapping set him on-course down the walkway and around the school where he would eventually find the bus-stop. The light sprinkles were nothing anymore, not even a registered irritance. It was more of what made his new home it's own other-world. Down the walk, past the vehicles…

He almost missed the shouts…

Off deeper in the no-mans land of the parking lot was a scene of some sorts playing out. It was enough to stop Owen's steps. Yelling. It sounded like a group of guys. And while the prudent course of action would have been to continue on his way and let things play out, or call Charlie, Owen was not always the most prudent of fellows. His direction changed. He headed straight for the noise, anticipating a group of worked-up high school players, which is exactly what he found.

"...push me again! DO IT!"

"Mike, don't! Leave it! Come on, man!"

So there were three of them, probably more like four or five.

"Yeah, leave it, Mike!" The tone was mocking and jeering. Laughter. Cursing. These were teens hopped up on adrenaline and reeling from an emotional game. The sounds of a scuffle came clear, as shoes scuffed the pavement and grunts pinpointed the exact location of the budding fight. From the way things were escalating, things hadn't quite escalated to the inevitable brawl. Most likely there were some peace-keepers in the middle holding back the combatants. He heard it in the way one of them attempted to talk the others down.

"Let's just go. The coaches'll be here soon and I don't want to end up in Clapp's office again."

"Yep, you don't want that, Mike," the same antagonizer. "You don't want anymore spankings in Couch Clapp's office, Mike."

Another voice: "Or maybe he does!"

"Excuse me." Owen made sure to make his presence known before coming up on the fight. "I'm sorry. I'm lost. I was trying to find the bus stop and-"

"What!?" The tough kid with the attitude was maybe five feet away. "Dude, get the hell outta here!"

The young doctor did just the opposite. He tapped his way into the small gathering of what sounded sounded more like seven. His smile was disarming, passive, unaffected. He knew all about bullies.

"You guys won," Owen said.

"Damn right."

"There's absolutely nothing you can get out of this except getting kicked off your team for fighting."

"Stupid invalid. Fool, I'm the reason this team wins. They're not kicking me out!"

Sensing the lost cause in that vein of reasoning, Owen immediately turned his back on the aggressors and turned to the bated Spartan players.

"Seriously guys, right now is a good time to help me find that bus stop." The warning in his tone spoke the warning of what might happen, should things progress. Nobody needed to jeopardize their season over some chance squabble in the back parking lot after a bad game. And while the antagonizer may have been lulled by his lofty assumptions of worth, Owen hoped the Spartan guys were smarter.

"Mike?" He asked, more pointedly. There was hesitation, everyone feeling out the moment.

Finally, "yeah...yes sir...it's this way…"

Owen felt Mike's hand on his shoulder as they exited the confrontation to more shouts and worse jeering. He could almost measure the sting of the barbs by Mike's grip. A tightening at anything directed at his mom, a lessening at the more inane thread of swearing.

"Thanks," the young doctor said quietly as they picked their way back across the parking lot with the other Spartan players in-toe. Owen had made the connection early on that Mike was probably the same Mike from the game, who was the same Mike from Jessica's ramblings. Apparently the evening's "man of the moment". He said nothing of it, opting rather to encourage.

"Guys like that...I've had them all throughout my life." No response. "The thing about it; I've found you beat them best when you can just walk away."

"I guess," Mike supplied in a still-fuming mutter.

"Anyway, good game, tonight. I loved the part when you guys did stuff and the announcer completely forgot to call it."

A few of the others behind them laughed. It brought a smile to Owen's lips.

"Yeah, we really need to get someone who knows the game to call the game," Mike replied with what sounded like an easing off the emotional throttle.

"It's like an incentive program," someone in the back chuckled. "We start winning and they'll start calling the games right."

And then everyone was laughing, spirits lifted and minds past the fight. All up until they heard a voice from far behind them.

"HEY MIKE!...YOU FORGOT YOUR BALLS!"

And then another voice in a panic. "LOOK OUT!"

Owen and Mike and the others turned to catch the sounds of a 'WOOSH' through the air. It came quicker than the warning cries. The sounds and then a searing pain in Owen's shoulder. The impact of the poorly aimed baseball spun him and sent him reeling to the ground where his head collided with the asphalt.

And then all went black.


	7. Chapter 7 - In The Wake of Humanity

**March 31st, 2006**

* * *

Chapter 7: In The Wake of Humanity

"And you're sure you don't want to press charges?"

Owen sat on the edge of the hospital bed, feeling like the universe was sending him a message. Another hospital. Another traumatic event.

"Charlie," the young doctor absently touched at the tender spot where his forehead had met the ground. Yep. Still a giant welt to match the one at his shoulder. "The kid hit a blind guy with a baseball. That's enough to follow him without all the legal drama."

"He deserves it," Charlie growled under his breath.

"Maybe, but I don't." No lawyers. No trials. Just let the mess be done.

It could have been the pain meds coursing through his system but for some reason, the incident felt far removed and even a bit inconsequential. Especially when considering everything else that had happened to him in Forks. All Owen wanted at the moment was his own bed.

"Is the doctor on his way?"

There was the tell-tale thud of boots on the floor as Charlie went to check. It was a bit strange. They'd not spoken since the night Harry had passed. Nothing intentional in the distance. Both had simply had more pressing things:...work and responsibilities and grief. Owen knew enough of the man to guess how Charlie handled the hard stuff...alone, in the distance. Harry had hinted at it when accidentally mentioning the old officer's failed marriage.

"So, uh, yeah the doctor will be in to see you," Charlie's voice came from what Owen surmised to be the doorway. "Hey, listen, I gotta get back out there to finish things up at the highschool. You gonna be ok?"

"I'll be fine," the young doctor said with a thumbs up. "Thanks, Charlie."

A clap of a hand on the doorway signaled Charlie's farewell and departure. And then Owen was left to cycle back through the evening. It hurt. Spinning those mental wheels literally brought on the ache, but it was near impossible not to run back through the day. There was simply too much that had happened. First, Sue Clearwater's visit to the office. That nagging suspicion at her words.

And then the baseball game and Jessica's rather tenacious job inquiry...the fight...Mike...laughter...the sound of the ball through the air...

Owen had awoken to the paramedics, poking and prodding. There were sirens and some kid sobbing in the background about 'an accident'. Likely Mike's bully getting a healthy dose of reality from Officer Swan. Owen hadn't minded that part. He remembered Mike's voice, too. He and Jessica. And for some reason, their voices together made Owen think of Leah. Why the connection happened in that space of time, in those circumstances, the young doctor couldn't quite figure. But regardless, he did wonder at the circumstances of her pain, the intensity he felt gripping her muscles.

 _My family is changing..._

"Owen Reid?"

His name brought him spinning back to the present. He let his head follow the voice, the trail of steps to his bedside.

"My name is Dr. Cullen."

Owen gave a short smile in greeting.

"Do you mind if I take a look at that?" And the young doctor felt a brush of fingertips at his temples, where the swelling had begun. It was a warm sort of injury and, oddly enough, the realization came in Dr. Cullen's gentle, probing touch. His fingers were cold. Not the most glaring thing in the world, but it was enough to win notice. Owen immediately brushed aside the thought with a common assumption: just the sterile chill of the hospital.

The examination went further to the shoulder before Dr. Cullen eased back.

"Yep," he said distractedly scratching away at a clipboard. "You were definitely hit by a baseball."

Owen laughed and winced a bit with the effort.

"Is that your professional opinion, Dr. Cullen?"

"That's what I put on the chart."

Both men chuckled. Despite the circumstances, it felt refreshing to have that ease in the environment. Owen made a note to request this doctor for any follow-ups. They went through the traditional series of checks, banter kept light and inconsequential 'til there came a pat of the arm.

"Alright, I think we're done, here," the doctor scribbled a few things, tore a note and set it in Owen's hand. "I'm prescribing some pain meds but other than the head-ache, it doesn't look like there's going to be much to worry about."

"Thanks."

"Not a problem and, hey," a pause as if the physician was weighing his words, "I didn't know Harry Clearwater well but I do know Charlie. And I want you to know that I appreciate your assessment. Charlie mentioned a couple times your push to get Harry in to check his heart."

The signs in the vertebrae. Owen had almost forgot that day he'd setup his table at the diner to attract some business. Harry's body had betrayed all the warning signs of a heart condition but the times Owen had pressed the older man to get tested, there'd been only resistence.

"You were right, of course," Dr. Cullen affirmed. "But Harry..." another bout of hesitation. Whatever the thought, it went lost to the moment as the physician opted for a different course. Owen heard the sounds of a stool being rolled up next to his bed. Dr. Cullen took the seat.

"Listen, I really appreciate your perspective. As taboo as some might make it, I'm a fan of the older," he seemed to catch himself. "More holistic approach. At least in long-term treatment."

"Agreed," Owen said.

"I...um...recently, I've had a lot on my plate. And I was wondering if I could refer some of my patients your way. I was meaning to stop by your office for a few weeks now but things have been...busy."

This was not at all a normal occurrence. A myriad of barriers typically separated doctors from each other and especially those in differing practices. And while there was the appearances of unity in referrals, the simple fact of the matter was that these types of agreements did not often come easily. Call it luck or fate or providence that Owen happened to be there that evening, treated by one of the only doctors in the area willing to consider such an arrangement; whatever the case, the opportunity was perfect.

"Absolutely," Owen tried to keep the excitement from his voice. This connection was exactly what the business needed. His wallet was out and a pack of business cards was proferred. And then without fully considering the words, he also promised to send his new office assistant over with a stack of referral pads, later in the week. Apparently, he'd already made up his mind on the matter of Jessica's employment, provided she sent her resume and formally accepted the position.

"Thank you, Dr. Reid," and the relief was evident in Cullen's voice. "I haven't really found a good long-term referral and from what I've heard, you're working wonders in town."

Owen imagined Leah, body tight, muscles siezed. Therein lay the true wonder. It still made no medical sense. And, leveraging some of the newfound comradery he'd just built with Dr. Cullen, the young doctor hazarded the question:

"I don't want to keep you from your rounds, but can I ask you something?" There was a fine line about to be tested with regards to confidentiality. "Harry's daughter...Leah...I'm concerned about a recent appointment."

Silence. Nothing save the regular ambiance of machines and distant hospital chatter. The very air seemed to sharpen in the uncertainty of what next and if it had been too much, too soon.

Owen hastened to add, "I understand if you'd rather not comment. And I'm sorry for bringing it up at all. It's just...I've never encountered anything like...I don't know..."

"It's not a problem, Dr. Reid," the other man assured, though with a noticeable clip in his tone. There was something of a bite, deep beneath the surface. Like the topic, itself, held more than Owen could fathom. Dr. Cullen leaned closer, a deliberate move meant to drive home the point of his next words, "If it were me?...I'd leave it alone. Focus on what's right in front of you. I'll be sending over a lot of cases these coming few weeks. Just...leave it be..."

Something in that last statement pricked at Owen's mind, like a stab of cold through his ears. It raised the hair on the back of his neck. What was it? Those sentiments shared so quietly, with such emphasis...

A warning...

But before Owen could react, Dr. Cullen had given his practiced repeat of the pain med instructions and was out the door with a practiced goodbye. The young doctor sat, completely oblivious to the dull, increasing throb at his head and shoulder. All forgotten in the wake of Dr. Cullen's words. Another player in the game of secrets. For a man like Owen Reid, it didn't serve to detract. If anything, his instincts only demanded more. All the whispered warnings in confidence and out-right pleas to ignore the mysteries of Forks, it solidified his resolve. He would know. The things of this place that had so affected his life...he would know them. He refused to be intimidated into ignorance. Too much in his life had been built by the will of others; good intentions pressed on him to save, to protect...to control. No. Whatever it was, Owen Reid gritted his teeth and vowed right then and there in the full presence of every cautioning memory to know the truth of Forks.

 _And then I will decide what to do._

Months later, when Owen laid bleeding out in the devil's arms...when he felt those teeth sunk deep into his flesh...he would think back to that moment...the day he'd committed himself to his own murder.

He would think back to that need to know.

He would think of her.

And he would have no regrets.

xXXx

Jessica began work the day after she'd sent her resume, a full day earlier than Owen had asked. And while perhaps not the quickest of study, she more than made up for it with energy. Jessica was a spunky, little ball of fire. She tore through the office, making short work of the filing system Jan had left. And after rearranging the foyer twice to, "Feng-freakin' shui this place, yo!", she'd ultimately decided it looked best the way it had been. Thus, the first few days had been a good learning time for both in how best to manage her enthusiasm. Jessica was a bright girl. And backed by the sometimes overwhelming volunteered support of her mother (she'd come at lunch and after work to help, as well), the office had quickly righted itself after the long absence of traditional management.

April happened and Owen barely registered its passing, what with the traction gained through Dr. Cullen's referrals. It had been a blessing for the small business. Enough to fill every minute with distraction...the very thing the young doctor fought. Because when the lights were turned low and Jessica had gone home, there was no jump on the next day. Though sorely needed, Owen had opted rather to fill his evening with the strangest obsession...voices of the past. Static-layered audio files cluttered his computer: news reports and audio transcribed papers and historian commentaries. And what a history it had been.

Owen's early search attempts had yielded little else than a wading through volumes of everyday prior life. But once he had narrowed down the search terms, once he'd hit upon the sweet spot of the Forks past, everything began opening up. No surprise in retrospect that the sweet spot just happened to be the Quileute reservation. The area's history seemed to orbit the tribe, dating back to the first interactions with white settlers in 1775. So much of the broad information yielded what might be expected, the resettling of the tribe and secession of lands to the American government. It was a sad thing to hear how generally these life-changing occurrences were detailed. And Owen often wondered at the specifics, the stories of the people and families affected by the change.

That was when the threads began to weave together, when the young doctor zeroed in on any personal accounts he could find. Or even second-hand recountings of the tribe's past. There were journals, told to him in the stunted, mechanical tones of a seeing-impaired application. He listened to people tell of other people...the courage and passion of the Quileute throughout the years.

And one defining theme resonated. It was something often passed over by the scholars. And yet it played a central role in the writings of the area's laymen. Superstition. The Quileutes were a tribe grounded in the supernatural of their ancestors. Spirits of the earth. Demons of the night. And the Guardian Wolf. Always the wolf.

Owen settled back late one evening to replay a source he'd heard countless times already. 1861. Early in the Civil War, the push for a volunteer infantry had come to the Washington Territory to fill the ranks of the Union forces. One man, Jeb Landover, had decided to travel East to join the war efforts. It was on the way, through Quileute land that he decided to camp for the evening:

 _"A bitter cold had come. I set camp and fire, though no rest would be had that evil night. For with the night came the hissing, like devilish winter snakes. They walked like men for I saw shadows about me on two legs. They strode about me as they hissed, just out of firelight. With my pistol, I shot until my amunition was spent. But should devils be hindered by mere weapons of man? No. Thus, I cried out to God for my salvation. And He answered me. With the baying of his warriors, He answered me. I heard the stamp of paws like stones upon the earth, a legion of them through the woods. There came a great cry from the darkness, fleeing deeper into itself with some from the pack in pursuit and others 'round my fire. Like guardians they stood all about me at edge of light. No sight seen. And, indeed, no angel stood at the break of dawn. But great imprints of paws all about me. The Guardian Wolves of these lands."_

It had grown late. 11:20pm and yet Owen had to hear it one more time. Something resonated deep in the words of Jeb Landover. While a few commentaries had breifly touched upon his journal to discredit it as the ravings of a drunkard, there was no denying the vehemence of the entry. Coupled with other, less-descriptive sources and the traditions of the tribe, the young doctor let logic take a backseat for the sake of curiosity.

"Quileute tribal beliefs," he commanded of his computer's search engine. A few 'dings' indicated the query had yielded its results.

"The Quileute Tribe identifies with traditional Native American religious systems," answered the computer. "Early lore of the tribe tells of warriors who became wolves to protect their lands. To this day, the tribe treats the wolf and its image as sacred."

Owen closed the laptop and eased back into his chair, head lulled back. Sightless gaze set to the ceiling as he entertained the image of a frightened young man alone in the woods with nothing but his side-arm and the fire of the camp. What would it have been like? To hear those unnatural sounds. To feel that fear. And it was then a stray whisp of remembrance infected the thought. Melody Taggert and her friends in the woods...the sounds...the deer's leg pulled pulled into the shadows by a sparkling white hand...the growling, hissing, terrors of the night...and the screams. He felt his heart pound out a manic rhythm as the pieces collided.

The terrible things in his dreams.

 _Please leave Forks..._

The howls in the night.

 _Everything is changing, Dr. Reid..._

The cold. The pain. The death.

 _My family is changing..._

 _Just leave it be, Dr. Reid..._

 _Please get out while you can..._

CRASH!

Owen sat up straight, his heart slamming in his chest.

What the hell...

It came at the front of the office. That lone sound splintering wood, shattering glass. His cellphone. God, his cell, WHERE WAS IT!? His hands were shaking as he patted about himself and then the desk in front of him. NO. Oh God, he'd left it in the front...

His only means of outside help was out with whoever...whatever...had just broken into his office.


	8. Chapter 8 - Old Walls

**April 5th, 2006**

 **Warning: Language towards the end.**

* * *

Chapter 8: Old Walls

The panic, the rush of adrenaline; it all felt so familiar. Owen's mind reeled back to the night he had encountered Dr. Taggert at the back of the office and a hopeful part of him lobbied for unreasonable calm. Maybe it was just Dr. Taggert, again? He'd come back to visit with Owen, to tell Owen what a great job he was doing. Nevermind the man was bedridden at a hospital, miles away, fighting for every beat of his heart. The young doctor suddenly released the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

The crashing abruptly stopped. If there was ever a moment to duck beneath the desk and pray, it would have been right there, right then. The last thing he needed to do was investigate. If anything, countless thriller novels had at least made that course of action apparent. Stay. Wait out whatever it was. Leave alive. But for all his reason, Owen was not always the most reasonable fellow. A strange part of him bristled at the notion of cowering in his office. Nevermind that none would fault him for it. No. This was all pride. He filled his chest with a breath and set his jaw. This was reckless, stubborn pride. The same that had brought him to this cursed town with its cursed luck. It was the same pride that kept him in town, past all logic. It was the same pride that had him rising to meet the unknown, head-on.

Stupid, stubborn pride.

Owen felt about his desk and came up with a hammer he'd used to tap a few nails into the old joints for extra reinforcement. It wasn't much but it was something. He gripped the wood of the faux-weapon and silently crept forward 'til his ear was pressed to the office wall, nearest the open doorway. By this time, the blind doctor had navigated his small establishment enough to know the distances by heart. No tap-tapping of his retractable cane needed.

He listened.

Nothing...

Owen felt his hands begin to shake.

Terror was an interesting thing because it betrayed a person's deepest self. There were no hiding behind facades when it hit. For some, there was an immediate need for flight. For most, it locked them up in the moment, a sort of stone-cold denial of what was happening...of what was about to happen. For Owen, the terror brought on something wholly different.

He felt...angry...

His upper lip curled back with the fierce onset of rage. And while there was no interpreting the reaction in the heat of the moment, Owen felt the barest hints of old defiance hard at work. So many, so much in life treated him with almost palpable pity. Perhaps that's what fired his core. No matter his circumstances, he was not a man to be pitied. And whatever was out in the dark would know it. He was not a man to be intimidated.

Owen steeled himself and then was out the door, silently moving up the makeshift hall, past the makeshift work spaces, towards the front. Still so silent. He half-wondered if he'd dozed during his little foray into the past and dreamed up the immediate fright. The young doctor stopped at the archway separating front from back and tucked himself into the corner, there, away from sight, enough to hear.

And he did hear something...

"DAMN IT!"

He knew that voice. There came the distinct sounds of swept glass. Owen slowly rounded the corner.

"Great. Just great!...it's all over the carpet..."

He could smell alcohol from clear across the room.

"How the hell am I supposed to clean this up!?"

"Leah?..."

His voice stopped her voice and stole her breath. He heard a scampering of feet, the sort of haste one might expect from a child caught at the cookie jar. Or a woman caught in the shower...? The slap of bare feet on wood registered somewhere in the back of his mind.

"Owen!?" She hissed and there was the strangest hint of accusation in her words. "What are you doing here!?"

The young doctor was still reeling and Leah did a fare job of filling his silence.

"It's almost midnight! You're supposed to be at home!"

"I-" Why did he feel the overwhelming need to apologize? "How-?"

"Nevermind. Listen, I'll fix this, ok? Call Charlie if you want or-...whatever...I don't care..."

Context came a moment later as his step came down upon a broken shard of glass. He began to bend on instinct to pick the piece up, but was stopped short with a rush of steps, his way.

"Wait!" Leah knelt in front of him and went through the motions of scooping the fragments up as she muttered, almost to herself. "It's just...I needed to get away. Just for a night. I had to get away from everything...from everyone." A bite at that last word brought remembrances of Leah's mother sitting across from him, warning him to keep away. He still had no clue what was going on but elected to hold his tongue and wait out the moment.

"So I came here, ok!?" She continued with the faintest traces of challenge in the tone but then the immediate deflation... "I didn't mean to break your door."

Break the door?

The sounds of her cleaning grew more and more frantic.

"I was sitting on the porch and...I don't know...I must have tossed one of the empties back a bit too hard-"

"Leah," he cut her off, "are you drunk?"

And that was it. That was the breaking point. Because in an instant the aggression was back.

"NO, OWEN. I'M NOT DRUNK. THAT'S THE PROBLEM!"

She took it out on her work. Her heard the glass slamming together in her hands, fragmenting further with the sudden hurricane of activity.

"I'M NEVER DRUNK! NOT SINCE DADDY-"

Everything halted...words, the manic rush of hands on the floor, her breath. For all the tragedies Owen had endured during his time in Forks, none registered quite the way Leah's played out. There was no familiar dip into sorrow. Her's was a near-palpable anger, a sort of mirror of his own that he could feel in the air. It struck like a slap.

She did not want to be weak, to show weakness.

Owen understood, perhaps, better than anyone.

"Well..." He said, moving past her to the broken door. He passed his hand over the place where the decorative glass had been. "If this is you, sober - I'd hate to see you drunk."

A pause.

And then a snort of a chuckle, so reminiscient of her late father.

"Screw you."

"Screw me?"

"Captain Invalid," she playfully sniped.

They were both laughing and it worked for them. It worked for who they were. Total and complete irreverence.

"At least I can't see the mess you made of my foyer. You seriously broke my door and shattered glass everywhere?" Now that may have rung with a note of sincere concern. But Leah easily deflected with the cold, hard, unabashed truth.

"Yup."

"Bitch."

And that seemed to ignite her rolling laughter. "If you only knew...how truly, accurately, offensive that is..."

Both were seated on the floor, holding their sides with the shared mockery. Sure, there may have been tiny razor traps all about them, but it didn't matter. The moment was strange and impossible and perfect. When they finally did calm, there was a long stretch of comfortable nothingness. It was refreshing after so much pain stretched out between so many others in need of traditional empathy.

"I'll fix your door," Leah absently promised. There was no move to rise. She sat a foot or so away. And he imagined her lounged back, staring up at the ceiling, lost in her own thoughts and making the most idle of chatter.

"Why did you come?" He ventured.

"Hm?"

"Tonight. I haven't seen or heard from you since-...that first appointment. Why did you come?" And then a thought struck. He bit back another chuckle. "And how do you know my schedule?" She had admitted as much, earlier, when she had asked why he was not at home. It was these types of moments Owen wished he could read the wealth of cues a person often betrays in the face. As it was, Leah gave nothing away. Not even a hesitation.

"You're a fairly predictable guy, Owen."

"Oh?" He did laugh, then.

"That night..." She drew in an unreadable breath. "My daddy told me that if I was ever hurting...to come back here...so..."

The easy smile slowly left the young doctor's lips as he processed everything through the lens of those words. She must have been at or near the office many times to learn his schedule. But he had never known. It must have been in the evenings. He could almost picture the last few weeks. A hurting young women with a case beer on his front steps. It would have been easy to avoid the eyes of others. He imagined her back against the porch lattice-work, bottle in-hand. Of course, her father had meant for her to continue treatment but his death had breathed an entirely new context into his original meaning.

 _If I was ever hurting...come back here..._

"My mom hates it," she sneered. "Seth and Sam and the pack think I'm being an idiot."

"Pack?"

"Nevermind."

Owen's brows furrowed but he didn't press.

"I just feel like...I just..." An echo from before, "I need to be away from them. Even if it's for a couple hours to drink crap booze and think."

"Fair enough," he reasoned. But that wasn't the end of it. All the building questions and mounting craze. If there was ever a time to peel back some of the layers, it was right then, right there. He shifted forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

"I want to know," Owen said, wasting no words, "what is going on in Forks? There's too many coincidences to miss. Attacks in the woods...the deaths...I'm sorry if it's difficult to talk about but...I want to know..."

Silence. They'd established at least a semblance of mutual respect. He took the hush to mean Leah was giving his question some honest consideration, or that was what he hoped. And after some time, that is what he received: an honest answer.

"You'd know if you really wanted to know."

"And that's not at all cryptic and evasive," he pressed with a smirk.

"That's the truth. No matter what Sam or mom or those asshole Cullens want to believe, there's no hiding it. Truth runs in the veins of these lands, Owen. If a person truly wanted to know what was going on...they'd know. And..."

Owen couldn't quite follow whatever subtle warning played in the things left unsaid, but she wasn't getting off so easy.

"And what?"

"And then that would be it." Finality. Perhaps that was the caution she was mildly attempting to convey. Whatever he sought, it meant the end. Of the riddle of Forks? Was this all some small town ritual of mystery? She continued with a muttered, "Unless you happen to be an angst-ridden teen who miraculously wins slobbering devotion from all who cross her path."

"Huh?"

"Nothing. Anyway, the point is...you don't really want to know, Owen. Nobody does. Because it's easier and probably for the best."

The conversation was clearly over. He heard the tell-tale signs of disengagement as she bent to pick at the broken pieces of glass scattered across the floor.

"I need to finish cleaning and get home before my mom," and she gave her best Mr. Burns impression, "'releases the hounds' to fetch me."

"Or you could leave it and I'll have a crew out to finish up, tomorrow."

Leah paused, more playful than serious, "What's the catch?"

He met it with the same, "You quit trespassing and set an actual appointment."

"Now, where's the fun in that?" She pouted.

Owen found a bit of fresh, mocking laughter.

"What fun? You're sitting alone on a porch, dodging notice and apparently NOT getting drunk. That's not even delinquent behavior, Leah. At that point, you're just weird."

"Got it," she said. He heard her slide a foot or so closer and wondered absently what her lips looked like when they lifted in the snarky smile she no doubt wore. "So, to recap...I'm a weird bitch."

"And I'm a willfully ignorant invalid."

"And together we are every crime fighting super hero duo ever written."

The air had cleared of the tension. Though no real answer given, somehow the young doctor was ok letting the muck of uncertainty and question go for that space of time. It was enough to hear her voice in something other than anger. And to know he'd had a part in bringing about the change.

"Fine by me," he gave a thumbs up, "as long as I get the cape."

More laughter. More of the strangest pleasure of her strange company. He felt her hand grip his. She rose, drawing him up with her and force the briefest of moment's, there they stood together.

"Hell no," Leah Clearwater quipped, "You're wearing the flashy green tights. And they'll call us Team Leah, because OBVIOUSLY."

And then she was gone. A step away, the creak of a broken door opening - how had she accidentally put a bottle through the door's glass? - he heard her footsteps trailing away.

"This Friday," he called after her.

"Aye Cap'n," she called back.

Damn it.

Owen hurried to the doorway.

"No way! THAT IS NOT STICKING! YOU ARE NOT CALLING ME THAT!"

"Captain my Captain!" Came her fading voice in reply. And Owen stood, taking in the fullness of the evening with all its sweet rain in the air and promise of unpredictibility. Yes. More than ever...he wanted to know.

A full block away, Leah Clearwater walked with a pace that had her nearly at a jog. She wiped frantically at her cheeks where the droplets of rain met a flood of tears. Her hands were shaking. Her chest rose and fell in deep gasps. _It hurt. Daddy it hurts. But I can't be there. I can't be near him. God, the wash of his scent_...her nostrils flared involuntarily with the deepest pull of air, yet. Leah's steps grew quicker and quicker, the need for distance like an addict from the drug.

 _The closer I am, the closer he gets to the monsters..._

Storefronts whipped past. Her shoes a blur on the pavement until the pavement gave way to gravel and then the grass of the woods. The stamp of feet became the thud of paws racing to meet the starless horizon.

 _What am I doing, Daddy? What do I do!?_

* * *

Author's Note: My apologies for the late posting of this chapter. I rewrote this about five times before landing on something that I felt works for the characters and scene. I hope you enjoy. And I hope you will forgive the bit of language and playful irreverence. I contemplated a sixth re-write but felt it works as a glimpse into their sometimes rough personalities. Thank you for your encouragement in reviews, faves and follows. I sincerely appreciate hearing from you guys, so please do feel free to drop a PM or comment in the review section.


	9. Chapter 9 - New Foundations

**April 7th, 2006**

 **Warning: Some language. Some sensual themes.**

* * *

Chapter 9: New Foundations

And so as it happened, Leah and Owen began spending more time together. There were the weeks of hesitation. Both so unsure of the other but hearts lit with hope until the formal appointments became friendly visits, every few days. It was so easy, so natural. Leah and Owen; that was their name. "Oh look there's Leah and Owen. Look how happy!" And there was laughter and the sweetest understanding...acceptance...love. "Oh look there's Leah and Owen." The most perfect love...

Except none of that actually happened.

Because love isn't perfect.

People are messy.

Life isn't a fairy tale.

In Forks...it was a literal horror. A slow, quiet, simmering burn of the deepest kind of reality. True horror. It didn't happen in grandiose sweeps of evil and reactionary heroism. The afflictions of Forks were like a sickness that ate away from the inside. All healthy, happy normal on the surface. And beneath...true horror. Owen would come to identify it for what it was: the loss of ignorance. Leah had been right. Even if wrong in the way she went about carelessly hinting at things, at the heart of the matter she was right. He should have left Forks when she pressed. He should have left her. He might have lived long and loved better.

These thoughts. These torrential thoughts like waves crashing upon a slow-fading consciousness as the world went dark. They say when you die, your life flashes before your eyes. But it was more than that. It was like the brain opened up to those parts long left unused for the barest of moments. An awakening into the briefest, sharpest clarity. When it all made sense. The secret of the world at Owen's fingertips, to tease and taunt and then...

And then that was it.

Just like she had said. The slow encompassing finality of staring at your life blood pouring out into the earth.

"But she loved me," he thought in a way that made him marvel at the surreal clarity of it all. "She did this to me because she loved me..."

And then Dr. Owen Reid breathed his last breath and died with the screams and roars all around him.

xXXx

"Eight...thirty...seven...pm...your appointment is late by..." a moment to process the calculations and then the voice on Owen's computer stated the obvious as it had been for the past, "one...hour and...seven minutes."

She was late.

Of course she was late.

Owen sat at his desk, gnawing at the inside of his cheek in irritation. There was a part of him that wondered at the stupidity of it all, of himself. Had he seriously expected Leah to keep her appointment?

"This Friday!"

"Aye Cap'n!"

Logic demanded he concede that he had been played to get out of the repairs, even though that same logic argued he had been the one to suggest the arrangement. A war within not made any better by the cash he had to pay out to get the door fixed and avoid police inquiry and an insurance hike. In truth, Owen may have also been feeling a bit foolish. Maybe Leah had seen the appointment as a poorly veiled strategy to see her again?

 _But wasn't that exactly what it was, Owen? Life is just another high school and you have a crush on the bad girl and she knows it and so she's going to use you. 'Cause you're a sucker, Dr. Reid. You're a blind sucker._

He had to laugh at the thought and the sound struck him as odd in the emptiness of the office. Blind sucker. In so many ways beyond the obvious. Owen felt so ignorant at times. That inability to read others past tone and words. Just go home, Owen. Go get some sleep. Forget about her.

Except he wouldn't. Of that, the young doctor was not ignorant. Because she would be there in his dreams, a hazy, unclear represenation, conjured up in the strangest ways. Sometimes they were running and he would fall and she would laugh. Her jaw would extend into something grotesque and filled with jagged teeth. And her laughter would be a howling scream. Or the nights when she was on the table...and she turned with his hands upon her...and she tenderly drew him down to her where they would press together...her body arching beneath him...her breath on his neck...

And then the snarl and sudden snap of teeth at his throat. The violence of things was always so stark and sudden, enough to shake him awake.

Dreams had meaning didn't they? He had stumbled upon a lecture during one of his conferences about it. Something about how dreams put memory into the most real and sincere context. And no doubt his were peppered by all the reeling emotions and silly supernatural superstitions of the town. Hard to make credible sense out of anything unless he took the imagined scenes at face-value:

Leah was a cursed wolf-monster who would lose control and kill him.

Owen felt the laugh bubble from his lips, once again, at the thought.

"Eight...forty...three...your appointment is late by..."

Back to the present. The doctor felt that tug of a choice rearing up in the back of his mind. Let it go, leave and forget the whole mess of things. Continue on with his life or...

A pause.

Owen's brows knit together.

Or...

There was something to be said of the stubborness of Reid in that an 'or' actually existed. And maybe more telling was that despite all the weight of evidence behind forgetting Leah Clearwater and moving on as she no doubt desired, Owen decided upon the very opposite. Because somewhere deep down, the doctor suspected that is exactly what Leah needed. She needed someone to persevere, someone to meet her head-on, someone to catch a cab out to the reservation on a late Friday night and keep their appointment.

Owen already had his cell in-hand and was dialing a driver. He did so while methodically arranging his portable equipment.

"...your appointment is late by..."

Click. The young doctor shut his laptop, picked up his things and headed out to the porch to await his ride.

And miles away, Leah stood with her brother before a crackling fire as the pack renewed their vows to each other and to the accords of the treaty with the Cullens.

"If any of them bite a human, the truce is over," Jacob growled in echo of the words he had uttered just hours before. And the pack snarled in their human forms, slamming fists totheir chests in agreement and whooping and roaring into the night sky. Leah stood a few feet apart from the raucous show, arms crossed, dark eyes ablaze in the light of the fire. It was her own terrifyingly calm and defiant assent. _The Cullens would die. Let them die._ She felt the call in her chest, lifted her head to the moon and sent out her voice to join with the others. _Let them tear the stupid little girl to pieces...and then let them die._

xXXx

Owen arrived at the Clearwater house at half-past nine, arms filled with the various bags that made up his 'travel gear'. These were the most basic of the basics: a small tote of essential oils, his portable table, clean linens and towels in another bag, a few water bottles, etc. The intent was not to setup shop but to establish a few things; namely, that he cared about his appointments...he cared about...well...he wanted to make sure Leah understood there was someone willing to go the extra mile to ensure she was ok. And she at least needed to meet him half-way.

"Want me to stick around?" The cabbie asked.

"Yep," he immediately responded. Owen had no illusions. Spontenaity often carried a double-edge and showing up unannounced could easily be a kick in the pants right back to town. Nevertheless, it was the principle of the thing, the point of the matter. He wasn't about to have his generosity stood up.

So, out came the cane and he tapped his way up a short, uneven walk to a small set of steps. Up to the porch, up to what felt like a screen door. He gave a few sharp wraps to the wood frame. A pause. Nothing. Silence. A few more knocks.

And then the cabbie's voice, "Uh, so looks like the lights 'er all off in there," he called in an increasing volume.

Owen rolled his sightless eyes. That would have been fabulous information prior to the whole ordeal of unloading his bags and making his way to the door.

"THINK MAYBE THEY'RE ALL ASLEEP?"

The cabbie was not receiving 'Best Cabbie of The Night' award.

"COULD YA ASK IF I COULD USE THEIR BATHROOM IF THEY'RE AWAKE!?"

The young doctor rubbed at his temples. Ok. Maybe this wasn't the best idea in the world. He heard the car door open and slam shut and then the tell-tale sound of a large man waddling his way up the path. A moment later, Mr. Cabbie stood beside Owen at the door. They stood in an awkward silence. He heard the guy scratch at something and suddenly had a very immediate reason to thank God for his blindness.

Another long moment and then for some strange reason the cabbie felt the need to lean over and whisper, "My name's Jerry."

"Hi Jerry."

"Hi."

Another pause.

"Think they're at home?"

"Probably not, Jerry."

The two stood side-by-side, lost in their own little moments: Owen silently berating himself for the ever-increasing regret of his decision to randomly show up at the Clearwater's house...the cabbie regretting that fifty ounce from 7-11. It ended with a friendly pat-pat of Owen's arm and a shuffle off to the side of the porch,

"'K well I'm gonna piss in the bush and then we can take off."

Before Owen had a chance to tell Jerry what an awful, disgusting idea that was, there came the unmistakable sound of fifty ounces leaving a bladder.

And that is the exact moment Leah Clearwater happened to round the house on her way back from the beach.

"WHAT THE F-"

Owen was mortified.

Leah was confused.

Jerry was...still going.

"STOP PISSING IN MY YARD!"

"I CAN'T!"

"OWEN!" Came Leah's growl in a tone demanding he do something. And for some reason the little voice in Owen's head that often went unheeded remained unheeded as he opted to meet the rage with a bit of defiance.

"Well, if you had shown up to your appointment-"

"THIS IS MY FAULT!?"

"It is pretty inconsiderate to abandon an appointment, ma'am..." Supplied the cabbie. "Just sayin'."

"SHUT UP!" Both yelled.

"What is all this!?" Leah marched up to Owen, giving Jerry a wide berth.

"I don't know anymore!"

Owen's face flushed with the embarrassement of it all. It was a bit of what kindled his fire; that everpresent lack of luck. So often stuck in the oddest or most uncomfortable situations. So often caught off-kilter. Leah was silent. She was near and fuming through her nostrils. He could hear it. But no words. Why was this always their encounter? Why always the yelling, the butting of heads and wills. And why did a small part of him relish it?

"Aaaaaaaaaand done." Zip.

Owen had almost forgot...

"Ready t' go boss?"

The young doctor let out a long, exasperated sigh.

"Sure, Jerry." _Whatever. Let's chalk this one up to 'worst decision ever' and move on._ He turned from Leah, setting the tip of his cane to the ground. The cabbie was already halfway back to the vehicle with Owen on his heels when he heard her voice.

"Wait. Don't go..."

Both men stopped.

"I'm sorry," she said past a gnawed lip.

A pause.

"It's alright," came the cabbie's magnanimous response. "I think we all learned some valuable lessons t'night, like stickin' t' our commitments and maybe havin' an outhouse fer emergencies-"

"Shut up, Jerry." Both at the same time, again.

"I'm sorry I didn't call you," Leah continued. "It's just been...things came up and it's been...I lost track of time..."

Owen fished his wallet from his pocket, thumbed out a few bills and handed them to Jerry. From the happy expression lighting the man's eyes, it was more generous than expected.

"Jerry," in the most polite of tones, "Please don't pee in people's front yards."

"Ok!"

"I'll catch a ride back home with a friend."

The larger man quite nearly skipped off and back to his vehicle, little heart no doubt set on another Big Gulp. And as the cab made it's exit, Owen heard Leah step up beside him. They stood there a moment, an almost symbolic moment, letting the craze of the evening slowly disappear with Jerry.

"Are you going to report him?" She asked quietly.

"Do you want me to?"

"No." She let out a long breath. "Something tells me Jerry doesn't have much in life."

"You're a good person, Leah."

And that was met with a snort of laughter.

"What is all this?" She asked again, obviously indicating his equipment.

"You're not getting out of our arrangement. You know that."

Silence. Long, telling.

"I know..." She half-whispered, almost to herself.

"Is your mother here? Your brother? I was planning on giving them both a free work-over as an apology for the random-"

"Neither..."

Another pause.

"My mom is working graveyard. My brother is staying out with the pa-...with his friends..."

So it was just them. Owen found himself consciously working to breathe in a steady rhythm.

"Things are..." She had somehow closed an inch or two. He could smell the beach in her hair, on her skin, that faint trace of the Pacific. "Things are getting complicated. I need to-"

"Leah." And his voice was firm, as quiet as hers, but tempered with the kind of resolve that had her heart lept into her throat, cutting off words and air.

"Let me help."

It was all so stupid. Everything about everything was just so inanely stupid in life. Werewolves and vampires and treaties and little girls with little worlds that somehow affected all the bigger, grander worlds. And everyone was just so damn accomodating about it. That's what boiled Leah's blood. The problems of Bella Swan. The melodrama of the Cullens. Jacob's infatuation. And for some reason these things had potence enough to infect her own life. The swirling vortex of madness that sucked everyone in, whether they were aware of it or not.

Even Owen...

But that was her fault, wasn't it? That was her part to play in the cummulative tragedy. Unless she could somehow find a way to turn the tides or pluck the stars from the sky. It would take that power at least to manage the effort of saying "no" to him in that moment.

xXXx

She lay on the fold-out table in her living room. Candles flickered as they had that first night, the night she had warred with her parents over some pointless, petulant thing. It seemed like a lifetime ago. It was a lifetime ago. A whole different life lived by a completely different person because Leah was no longer the petulant child. Her dark eyes slit open to stare into the candlelight. Leah Clearwater was a monster.

"Relax, Leah."

His voice.

So strange.

Like a phantom touch added to the caress of his hands at her back. She could feel his voice inside her. And all at once it made her want to run from him...and turn upon him to claw and bite...and wrap her legs about his body...and feel his skin against hers...and his lips...and his grip in her hair...

"Relax," he hummed.

She did. Because what the hell, Leah?

She breathed in deep, letting the undulating rhythm of his knuckles and thumbs work miracles upon her exhausted muscles. Make no mistake, the muscles were always on fire now that the change had occurred. There was never any true relief, no true release until that glorious, near-euphoric moment when her body became the wolf. Everything was better when she was the wolf. Her muscles, her mind, her heart. Everything hurt just a little bit less...

A little whimper escaped her lips as he hit a knot that had been there since the night it first happened. It was a horrible time to remember. Her roaring rebirth into the new life of the wolf. And then her father's body. She had howled 'til her throat was raw with the rest of them.

"Are you cold?" He asked, startling her back to the present.

Leah realized she'd been trembling. Damn it, what the hell was wrong with her!? The moisture on her cheeks didn't help either. Owen didn't seem to notice.

"I'm fine," she muttered.

POP.

"What was that?" And she lifted a bit off the table, the towel covering her bare back slipping to the ground.

"Your T1."

She rolled her eyes. "Oh good, 'cause it felt like my T1."

"Lay back down, Leah."

They were both chuckling a little. She felt his fingers fan out across her shoulders and couldn't help the 'mmmmm' that escaped her lips. Whatever. This was a private session with no one home. She was allowed a bit of release. He worked down, the oils of his hands mixing with the oil of her skin, making the glide of that touch something divine. Or maybe there was more to it than that? Because, again, when he spoke and when he touched her, it was somehow different than their first night. His very presence made everything feel so... - Leah's heart skipped a beat -...complete. All those nights drawn to his office steps where his scent lingered the strongest. Is that why she had gone? To be near the mere scent of him? _No. This can't happen. I can't do this._

Panic.

It came on quick and sudden.

"Whoa-" But Owen didn't get the chance to finish the reaction. She was up. He heard the dip for the towel, the hastened steps away, her words like machine-gun fire.

"Yep, thanks Owen. That was great. So great you dropped by and let's be sure to do this again sometime, except without Jerry, and you know let's just skip the trip out this way because if I don't show and don't call you can assume all is ok because I'm ok, Owen, OK?"

"Ok." He was so irritatingly calm.

"You see that now."

"Yes." She missed his steps towards her, the surity of them despite the unfamiliar place.

"I don't need you showing up on my doorstep with all those good intentions because I'm fine, ok?"

"Ok." How was he suddenly a foot away?

"I'll call or maybe I won't," she pressed her back to the living room wall. "It doesn't matter. None of this matters."

And then there he stood, a breath away. And her eyes shut because, yes, his scent was a part of the otherwordly pull to be close...so close to him.

"You don't understand," she whispered. "You have no idea..."

"Then tell me."

He didn't touch her. It was just that barest space between them. The words, the scents, the comfort of presence. She could almost taste him. Her lips parted. Her chest rose and fell in quickening rhythm with only the towel half-clutched at her body. And for a second, for the briefest of moments, the truth was on her tongue. _It's all true. Everything in the books and all the bat-shit crazy is real, Owen. Vampires and werewolves and the suffering they bring. That's what will happen to you. I promise, Owen. I promise you'll suffer...just like everyone else. And it'll be me that makes you suffer..._

She pressed her free hand to his chest and it lingered there, taking in the shape and contours, as if memorizing the feel of him before she violently broke with everything inside and pushed him away from her. It was like punch to the gut. Leah could feel her stomach knotted. Because she had just denied her soul's need to have his presence and it's rage manifested in a way almost worse than the change.

But make no mistake, Leah Clearwater was a fighter, more-so perhaps than every male in the pack and it was that indominable will that carried her away from him despite the agony.

"You have to go," she groaned.

"Leah..."

"PLEASE!" Her voice broke. "JUST GO!"

And she was gone, back into the depths of the house where a door slammed shut.

xXXx

"Alright, buddy. No problem. Yeah I figured I'd stick around the area 'cause I know Mrs. Clearwater and ain't no way you're stayin' the night at that house." Jerry had opened the door to deposit Owen back at his apartment. "Hey you need help gettin' inside with all that?"

Owen wasn't really listening.

"Huh?"

"The bags, dude."

"Oh, uh...no, I'll be fine."

"Cool."

The cabbie slipped back into his seat and Owen slipped out with his things. He began pulling out his wallet but received a loud, "NAH DUDE! 'S ALL GOOD! THIS ONE'S ON ME!"

Owen wrapped his knuckles on the hood of the car in thanks.

"Ok bye now!" And Jerry was off and Owen was left to stand there, yet again, at a loss in life. He shut his eyes. There was no difference, of course. Not even the darkening of all those darting colors. A deep breath. The air was crisp that night. It filled him with a sense of...strange...his brows tugged together, focusing on the feeling...how strange...his lips curved upwards slightly.

It felt like home.

With a certain inherent resolve, the young doctor pulled his cell from his pocket and spoke her name. A second later a mechanical voice greeted him,

"Leave your message for..." Pause. Leah's voice. "Leah Clearwater." And the beep, signaling Owen's turn.

"Leah...see you for our appointment, next Friday."

Click.

* * *

Reference: The treaty between the Cullens and The Quileute Tribe, New Moon Epilogue.

Author's Note: I really hate to make excuses for the long posting times. I'm working on devising an actual writing schedule. As it is, I do so appreciate all of your encouragement. Thank you for your faves, follows and reviews. To address a question in the reviews, my apologies if everything seems a bit vague and unclear. Leah is the only female werewolf in the series and I felt like that was a unique opportunity to imagine her side of the imprinting. Everything is so confusing for her, right now. And I feel like she's the type of person who won't ask for help or clarity. So, as it has sort of organically happened, her journey through these concepts of imprinting become our journey with her. lol Maybe it's a bit pretentious and my apologies if that's how it comes across. But I do promise it will all come together. Thanks again for reading :).


	10. Chapter 10 - Worlds Apart

**April 8th, 2006**

* * *

Chapter 10: Worlds Apart

Escape is such a subjective concept. It is different for everybody. Where one woman might eat chocolate and bury herself in a movie, another might decide upon an impromptu road trip. Maybe a drowning in work, a drowning in the affections of a temporary lover, a workout at the gym, a splurge at the mall. So many means to cope with the challenges of the heart.

Leah Clearwater ran.

Her lithe body slicked with earliest morning sweat, breath labored but focused on the exertion. She ran with intensity. Her eyes were set upon the path before her as it snaked about the woods surrounding the reservation, dark eyes sharp and focused upon the immediate. No thoughts of the past night, of the pain she'd felt in his absence...or what that meant. She could not bring herself to entertain the full breadth of her heritage; it's blessings and curses. No. It can't happen. There was just too much between the pack and the Cullens and the chaotic spiral of things.

All because of a teenage girl's teenage whims.

Her arms pumped with her legs. Her hands tensed to fists.

It was easy to blame Bella Swan - deep down Leah knew it was perhaps too easy - but reasoning through feelings was not at all Leah's strong-suit. And that was why she ran. That was why she took the easy shots at the girl from whom all grandiose coincidences seemed to flow. It was just easier than facing herself in the mirror with the cold, sobering truth...

The wolves had their blessings...and they had their curses...

The trail ended up ahead. Leah saw it clear, the dip of the edge, the mountain's lip where, beyond, there came the distant crash of waves. Her upper lip raised in a ferocious snarl at the sudden rise of panic in her chest. No fear. I fear nothing. Why then did her steps slow? She willed the resolve into existence. She could imagine the next coming moments when her feet would leave the safety of the ground and she would fling herself wide into open air.

Because Bella had done it. Isn't that what she had overheard Jacob saying? Bella had jumped. And if simple, weak Bella could throw all caution to the wind for the sake of impetuous release. Why the hell couldn't Leah Clearwater?...Leah Clearwater who was first female among the wolves...Leah Clearwater who would need no rescue like the simple, weak Bella...Leah Clearwater who could deny any damn curse of the heart her heritage tried to force upon her.

She would glide through the air and meet the waves and pull herself to shore because this was about her, damn it! This was her life, damn it! This was her choice, her will, her heart and these things belonged to her, damn it!

Ten more steps.

She had never jumped from these heights.

But who cared!? Who cared if her body broke in the churning waters and she drowned and joined her father in the afterlife!?

This was her life!

This wasn't his life!

The things she felt the past weeks meant nothing!

The ache for him...

Leah's breath caught in her throat. Her body quit. As if of its own accord, her feet planted yards away from the edge and she went tumbling forward, shoulder over shoulder, her fingers desperately clawing at the ground for purchase. Somewhere far away she heard a sharp, terrified cry...and then realized it had been her own voice. The break of the forest came quick. Her legs left the ground and dangled precariously over the side of the mountain. And it was just by the lucky snatch of the sturdy brush that kept Leah from slipping completely over the edge. Her muscles screamed with the strain. Her eyes were wide, her heart caught up in her throat with the sheer terror that shook her even as Leah pulled herself to safety.

She lay and cried and slammed her fists at the ground. And when she was spent, Leah drew her knees up to her chest and lay there, panting.

"I can't do this, daddy," she finally groaned aloud, sentiments she had said a million times over in her mind. But she wasn't talking about the need to prove herself better than Bella.

No.

It was him. His scent. His presence. Him.

He was the one who had stopped her short of the uncertain tempting of fate. And maybe that's what this morning was all about? "Leah. So stubborn," her father would always say. "You can't control the wind." It had been his tired, old mantra whenever she refused to accept the inevitable. And those words played like a chorus in her moment, there, upon the ground.

She understood imprinting. Hell, if anyone understood the cold, hard reality of the tribe's strangest affliction, it was Leah. Because it was imprinting that had stolen Sam from her. The way he had so suddenly, so fully committed himself to Emily; Leah had thought it an immature man's weak vapidity. Sure she knew of the wolves and the traditions of her tribe but imprinting felt like such an excuse. Like one of those qualities added to myth to romanticize the story and make it legend. She didn't quite believe...

Not until that night...

When she had come to his office after the change...

Why had she gone? Leah lay, staring blankly up into the sky, lost in the past...lost in the thought of him...

Her world had just exploded. She remembered that. Everything Leah had ever known had siezed up, shut down...ended. Sort of the way she imagined her father's heart had stopped. And as Leah tore from her home to escape the blare of sirens and the whirl of emergency lights and the cries of her family, she found herself racing towards Forks. She ran with no destination in mind, just the incessant need to be gone from the surreal insanity of it all. She had changed?...her father was dead?...

No. None of it had really happened.

Instincts carried her past the boundaries of the reservation and down the road where time seemed to match her steps...sometimes slow and trudging, sometimes a sprint. Somewhere behind her, the pack had begun its mournful song of parting. And her soul lept to join them. Howls like agonized moans. _Daddy..._

Leah reached Forks drenched by the occasional pockets of drizzle she had run through on her mad trek away from the reservation where her father's body was being lifted onto a gurney for transport. She couldn't think about it. As it was, the tears that had so mercilessly come and gone were spent. She was empty. Hollow. No aim. No direction. Just one foot infront of the other, down the sidewalk 'til his office came into view.

She stopped. She stared at the tiny, old building with its old porch where her father had practically dragged her, those weeks ago. She stared at the blind doctor who had so fully met and matched her stubborness. A cry of the wolf far away at her back. In front of her, the man who had taken away the pain.

Wasn't that what daddy had said?... _"He's a good man, Leah. He's good at what he does. If you're ever in pain again, darling...you go see him."_

And she was in so much pain.

More unbidden steps towards the office. He stood upon the porch, setting those sightless eyes to the dark skies, as if searching out the wolf's calls. A copse of trees cut the urban of the city and peppered her way towards the office with familiar earth. She passed across the street, into the wet grass which would become gravel and then the steps of the porch and then into his arms where he could make everything go away with his touch, the way he had those weeks ago:...all the hell of the night would just go away.

Leah hesitated.

What was she doing?

That sight of him, that thought of him, it grabbed at her with an awful relentlessness. She had run from her family in their hour of sorrow. That made sense. She had run from the new and terrifying call of the wolf. That made sense.

She had run to Owen Reid...

No sense there.

As if he could solve all her problems with the touch of his hands.

Leah watched him, feeling that odd, alien stir in the pit of her stomach. Another few steps toward him. She stood at the last tree separating her from the pavement of Owen's small office parking lot. He stood some twenty feet away. But somehow it felt like a ocean between them. Because even as a slam of incomprehensible need washed over Leah Clearwater to be near him, to tell him everything that had happened and feel his arms holding her through new sobs, she could not bring herself to cross the waters.

The wolves at her back...

The man in front of her...

Their islands were too far apart.

Her breath hitched in an unbidden choke of realization: clarity like a hammer, driving home the wedge that had to exist. She wanted so desperately to walk twenty more steps. But the wolves howled their song, their promise. She was a monster. She had killed her father and she had become a monster. She deserved no escape from the hell of things. If anything, Leah felt the overwhelming need to accept the hell, wallow in it for what she had become and what it had done to her family. This was her penance for a life lived in such abject defiance. The judgement of her ancestors.

And how selfish of her to drag a man like Owen Reid down into the violence with her.

No.

Leah's shoulder slumped under the weight of everything. Her strong, aching, tired body slid down the rough bark of the tree. Her head lulled against it...staring at him. And though all force of her soul demanded she go to him in that moment, an equal demand warred for distance.

 _"If you're ever in pain, again, darling...go see him..."_

 _Daddy, I can't._ It was the first of a thousand times. _I can't I can't I can't I can't I can't I can't I can't_...over and over 'til the words didn't make sense anymore and she felt like screaming. _I can't._

 _Because if I do...I will kill him...because that's what I do, daddy..._

So Leah had watched as he listened to her people and let his forehead dip to meet the post. She had watched him listen to the cry of her heart and then she had left him with the promise to never put him at risk. The only concession her soul seemed to allow. There were those nights it had proved too much and Leah had taken her booze to sit in the shadow of his presence, there upon the porch where she had watched him and where her soul had knit itself to him.

The tribe's curse.

She lay there at the edge of the mountain in her remembrances wondering at the futility of it all. She felt a laugh on her lips. This power over her that the imprinting had made: the awful, wretched, beautiful power. Enough to stop a wild impulse to jump off a cliff. He didn't even know. She laughed. Owen Reid had no idea how real the things were he was seeking out and how close to death he was.

The cynical humor ended.

Clarity like a splash of cold water to the face.

 _Oh God._

She scrambled to her feet.

There was no escaping this. Their lives were tied, no matter how hard she fought.

 _God...he had to know._

xXXx

"I kissed a boy and I liked it. The taste of her cherry chapstick..."

There was just something about early Katy Perry that Jessica adored. Maybe the rawness of it? There was just something so refreshingly unrefined, less manufactured than the star's current vein of formulaic pop hits.

"It felt so wrong, it felt so write," she sang and danced with mop in-hand, "Don't mean I'm in love tonight!"

And cue a little booty shake.

Dr. Reid had left a message on the answering machine that morning: "Hey Jessica, long night, last night...I'm gonna take a mental health day and head out to see Dr. Taggert and maybe hang out in Seattle for the weekend. No appointments are scheduled so all should be good for you to duck out early, if you'd like. Thanks."

So with an office all to herself, Jessica had done what any sane, rational person might do in a similar situation. She had watched some TV in the fort she built out of the foyer furniture and then spent the rest of her time doing as little as possible. Point in case, the mop she spun about her makeshift stage wasn't even being used to clean. It was her mic stand and she was currently performing for the imaginary crowd in her head.

"I kissed a girl and I liked it! I LIKED IT!"

Knock knock knock knock!

The wrapping at the door was like a freakin' machine-gun. _SERIOUSLY._ Jessica groaned as she threw a glance to the clock on the wall nearest her front desk station. 10:20am. Literally five minutes before she was going to shut down the computer and head out for the day. Dr. Reid did say she could leave early.

Knock knock knock knock knock knock.

Jessica made it to the front door.

"WHAT!?" And then she remembered where she was and what she was supposed to be doing. "Uuuh," as she adopted a bit more formality and opened the door, "I mean...whaaaaat can I help you with, today?" Big plastic grin. But then Jessica registered who it was that had interrupted her perfect workday and dropped the act.

"Oh, hi." Jessica blinked as she took in the sight of the woman. Jeans ripped up a bit provocatively across the thighs. _And for crying out loud, Jessica, you need to stop listening to Katy Perry because you are totally checking out other girls, now._ To complete the package, Leah had opted for a tight white tank-top...which was also oddly torn in some interesting places.

"Where's Owen?"

"Um..." Wait. _'Owen'? Why the familiarity? Why the early morning visit with the awesome outfit?...why did it even matter, Jessica?_ Obviously Leah wasn't dressed this way for Dr. Reid because obviously he wouldn't be able to see it.

Leah stepped right past the mute Jessica and right into the office.

"Hey!"

No use. The woman was past the reception desk and storming towards the back like a badass. Yep. More tears in the back of the pants. Jessica made a mental note to ask about the brand...some other time...when Leah wasn't on the warpath.

"So yeah," Jessica followed cautiously at a distance. "Um, so like Dr. Reid is out today and told me to-"

Leah was back and looked crazy. Like panicked. Like crazy panicked.

"Where did he go!?"

Jessica gulped. "...um..." This was getting scary.

And that seemed to click with Leah because there came a deep, steadying breath. Leah closed her eyes through it and when she re-opened them, there was a bit more calm, a bit less wild-girl.

Slowly, Leah asked again, "where did he go, Jessica?"

"I-...I don't think I can give out that kind of info...or I shouldn't give out that info...or-"

"It's fine," Leah said through gritted teeth.

"Look, I don't think we had you on the schedule and I'm sorry...that's," Jessica mustered some courage, "it's probably my fault 'cause I'm new and I'm just so sorry." _And please don't kill me and dissolve my remains in a barrel of acid 'cause you look like a crazy person, right now._ It was weird. The way her eyes scanned and her nostrils flared at times. Like an animal.

"I really like your clothes," Jessica added weakly to break the space between them.

Leah sighed and muttered something distractedly...something about, "still haven't figured out how to travel without biting through them."

"Huh?"

"Nothing. I'm sorry about barging in."

There was that nice 'normal' the teen liked to see when alone with suggestively-dressed scary ladies. She gave a small smile and a quick shake of the head to dismiss the apology.

"Are you ok, though?" Jessica asked with sincere concern.

"Yeah."

But probably not, the teen guessed.

"I'm sorry," Leah said again, a bit more in control, maybe even a touch embarrassed. "I was trying to call and his cell must be off, so I figured I'd try here and-"

"Yeah yeah it's no problem," Jessica followed her back to the doorway, falling into the rhythm of this much easier, much less intimidating conversation. Maybe falling a bit too far... "'Cause I can't ever get him when he's over with Dr. Taggert because I think he turns his phone off, ya know? And-"

Leah stopped. Jessica stopped. _Oh no_. Leah turned a curious, probing eye on the girl. Jessica gulped hard. 'Cause she had so totally blown it.

"Dr. Taggert?"

"NO no no no no no no no no pleeeeease-"

"I won't say a word," Leah promised. "I just need to answer a very important question he asked me the other night."

Another pause.

The rather easily distracted girl blinked away all traces of terror at having just revealed her employers location to the potentially psychotic woman because, "OH HE PROPOSED, DIDN'T HE!?"

"What!?"

"THAT'S WHAT THIS IS ALL ABOUT!" Jessica's voice had reached a near-shriek with excitement.

"NO!"

"YES!" And with a sudden grasp of Leah's hands, the teen began a strange, irritating bounce of joy. "He proposed and in the whirlwind of the moment you ran away because it was just too much but then you realized he's THE ONE and you have to tell him before it's too late because he's leaving town and-" Jessica's eyes went wide again, "Oh god, is Dr. Reid leaving town!? Am I gonna lose my job!? I like this job!"

Leah stared at her.

And then in a straight deadpan: "Jessica. I'm a werewolf. I have to tell him that we can't be close because my pack or our mortal enemy vampires might lose control and kill him."

A beat.

And then Jessica burst out laughing.

"Mine was SOOOO much better!"

Leah smiled.

"And hey," the teen continued as they walked together to the door, "listen I think you've been reading a bit too much Anne Rice."

Her mind already miles away, Leah gave a short nod in goodbye and was out the door heading back in the direction of the reservation. Almost as an after-though, Jessica called after her, "Please!...um please don't tell Dr. Reid I blabbed!"

"I won't say anything," came the Quileute woman's response over her shoulder. And then Jessica watched her go, gaze maybe lingering a bit too long on those rips in the fabric and the tease of copper skin. She leaned there, absently gnawing at her lower lip, a song unconsciously in-mind...

 _"I kissed a girl and I liked it...the taste of her cherry chapstick..."_

 _Oh well._

She turned and went about the work of closing up the office for the weekend. And maybe if she had taken her usual trek past the small wooded area just before town opened up, Jessica might have spotted those jeans and tank-top she had admired, torn further apart and left like rags upon the earth. As it was, Jessica caught a ride from her mother and life remained the simple, easy, uncomplicated mess it had always been.

 _Werewolves_ , she thought to herself as they rolled away and the office disappeared from view. It brought a giggle to her lips. _Who knew hard-ass Leah Clearwater could be so funny._

* * *

Author's notes: Thank you so much for your encouraging words and support! I love reading your thoughts. I hope you enjoy this latest chapter. It's a bit of a setup for some big things to come. _  
_


	11. Chapter 11 - These Violent Delights

**April 9th, 2006**

 **Warning: Some violent themes.**

* * *

Chapter 11: These Violent Delights

Tap tap...that ever-present metronome of his life...tap tap tap tap...the stick's point on the pavement. He occasionally found himself humming something indistinct to the occasional rhythm that slipped into the tap of his steps. Perhaps if he were more poetic, he might have made something more of the thought: the sounds of the city were like a beautiful, orchestrated chaos and my steps are just another instrument in the mix. No. That was a bit too self-indulgent. Owen felt the jab of obstruction in his path, the walking-stick rose and tapped along what must have been a waste-bin for it's large, rounded body and opening at the top. The deduction had taken little more than a touch of the stick, a slide of it upwards and then back to the ground, where Owen deftly maneuvered around the thing. No. His steps weren't music in an idealistic ocean of music.

They were more like...

Small invasions into No Man's Land.

That was his rhythm.

A daily war. A sometimes perilous surge into the unknown. There was nothing beautiful about it. And, sure, it might have been easier to ground oneself in flowery perspective...but why? Owen never quite understood why so many others tried to encourage him to view the limitation as something more than what it was...impairment. Every new location was a new foray into the ceaseless unknown. No Man's Land, where landmines were missed potholes and juts in the road. Enemy sniper fire was a baseball thrown by a reckless teenager. Granted, the metaphor may have been a tad extreme, but when life was an extreme, one was entitled to some grandiose generalities.

Seattle had been a No Man's Land the first few visits. Owen had remained with Dr. Taggert at the hospital and then elected to take cab or bus straight back to Forks without a foray into the city. The unfamiliarity soon disappeared, piece by piece, as Owen spent time researching the areas around the hospital and further out. He had his methods. Gather as much preliminary understanding of the location through what he could glean from the maps spoken to him on the internet. For instance, Studio 6 was three blocks from the hospital. So Owen had left Dr. Taggert's side, taken a left down the sidewalk, received some friendly guidance regarding construction in his way and eventually made his way to the hotel. Studio 6 then became a salient in his personal No Man's Land, a line cut into the unknown and setup as a new 'forward position'.

From the Studio 6, Owen had made his way to the neighboring Applebees which became a regular haunt, when in the bigger city. From there, he had gone further to a Starbucks and then a few blocks more to a music store.

The night it happened was the night after his little excursion out to Leah's house. And while it was true he needed some personal time away from work, perhaps more accurate truth was that he needed some time away from Forks. It was odd. Owen felt so different in Forks. As if the place was its own private planet and any who entered inveritably adapted to the ways of the planet. He felt like he knew everyone...or at least knew someone who knew everyone. Degrees of separation barely existed in Forks. And for a man who had lived much of his life in relative anonymity, the familiarity was sometimes stark and off-putting.

And then, of course, there were the deaths, the unending eeriness of the place, the feeling of 'something more' just out of reach...

Leah...

He needed some space from whatever it was he was feeling about Leah.

Thus, the trip to Dr. Taggert and the decision to stay in Seattle through the weekend. He had arrived mid-morning, chauffeured by Jerry, an apparent new buddy. Jerry was a decent enough guy, a bit raw on the edges maybe, but earnest enough at heart. They arrived at the Studio 6 and the cabbie even helped unload and get Owen settled in for his weekend, promising to be a phone call away, if needed. Definitely a decent guy.

First to Dr. Taggert, who was showing no progress. Owen's trips were becoming more and more symbolic than a true hope for recovery. He had begun to make peace with this fact and reconcile himself to the inevitable end. It would come. But it didn't have to break him any more. Owen had held Dr. Taggert's massive hand in his own, given it a squeeze and left the man's side earlier than usual. He just needed to get away from everything for a while.

The day had been spent walking a park near his hotel, taking in all the mundane distractions. The sounds of children playing. There were a few dogs, a few couples running together. He let the sweet 'normal' wash away the complications. Lunch was taken at a passing hot dog vendor. Something in the feel of the moment had an old song of his father's running through his mind on repeat: "Saturday in the park...I think it was the 4th of July...". Old-school Chicago. Like a throwback soundtrack to his younger life.

And yet...

That's all it was, really. When he left the park and left it all behind him. Just an old soundtrack played out and then finished. It didn't change anything. The experience didn't bring any knew clarity. Just distraction...hollow distraction. No matter how confusing, Forks still stretched out ahead of him, his mystery...his home.

And Leah...

Her name on his lips. Such a strange, sudden compulsion, deep inside, to call out to her. It felt resonating. As if the fabric of the world could have stretched and buzzed to deliver his message: I need to see you...I need to talk with you...I need you. Of course, none of it made sense. But maybe that was the point? Maybe the way people change and grow and adapt did not need to make sense. It was merely meant to be felt. Whatever the case, Owen resolved to talk with Leah when he returned. We'll put aside all the layers and just talk. And maybe she would lean into him as they did so and he could breathe in her scent, that beautiful mix of spices and the sea. And maybe in the nearness, their bodies might brush. And the fire in his blood might stop the words and he would finally throw pretense aside, press his lips to her's and they would press together, wanting and needing and...

Groan.

 _I need a stiff drink._

And that is how Owen ended up at an unfamiliar bar, somewhere in downtown Seattle. All traditional caution went by the wayside in favor of a better distraction than the quiet nostalgia of a park. Jerry hadn't been available, so a local cabbie had sufficed and even given a decent recommendation. The Back Nine Bar was more lounge than bar. Nice staff. Relatively good service. The music was a bit loud but not a problem because Owen wasn't there to talk.

"Another one, buddy?"

His bartender the evening had been a guy named Stue. Thick, gravely tone. Probably could have passed for a bouncer by his voice. Owen gave a nod and began work on a third Heineken, taking in the sounds around him with only a cursery interest...that is until he caught her voice near his ear.

"Hey hun, how's your night?"

"Hm?"

"My name's Samantha."

She had a nice, melodic ring to her voice and an easy-going nature, judging the gentle squeeze she gave his shoulder in greeting. That touch lingered, her arm resting a second or two longer at his back than might have been inappropriate. But who knew. Owen didn't give it much thought and instead smiled his own 'hello'.

"Owen," he said.

"Owen," she repeated playfully. "You're not from around here, are you, Owen?"

"What?"

"I said you're not from-..."

Samantha shifted in her seat, drawing closer. He could smell the faint hint of something sweet, like candy, and for some reason it reminded him that he had forgotten about dinner.

"Sorry," and her lips were closer to his ear, "it's really loud in here." And her knee was brushing his knee. "Hey, do you want to go somewhere else, Owen?" Was that her arm around his shoulders?

Owen blinked.

"Um, you know, I think I'm actually going to get back to my hotel." The doctor's wallet was out and he was fishing out a few bills to thank Stue for his service.

"Sounds great," Samantha purred. "I'll drive."

Quickly, "Oh, I don't want to impose. I'll just call a cab."

A pause. Owen listened for cues but there was too much noise in the background.

"Right. Stranger danger," she teased.

"No, I-"

"It's no problem, Owen."

The familiarity was a little jarring. He smiled, nonetheless, bid his goodbye and was back on the sidewalk within a few minutes. Wanting a bit more quiet and a bit less attention, Owen tapped past the crowd waiting to get into the lounge and walked a block or so away before removing his cell to hail the taxi. Fifteen minutes or so, the company had said. Owen was left to stand around awkwardly 'til the ride arrived. It wasn't even half that time when he heard a vehicle pull up. A window rolled down.

Her voice, "Owen."

"Hey Samantha."

"You suuuuure you don't want a lift?" A giggle. "I'm not gonna bite, big guy. Come on. You're new. I'm an Angeles Old-Timer. Let me take you around. I PROMISE PROMISE no funny business. Just some fun."

Owen had no idea what that meant. Not that it mattered because there was not much reason getting through the buzz in his brain. The little cautionary voice in the back of his mind had been sufficiently drowned by that last beer. So what might have seemed like a weird offer from a complete stranger actually translated into an interesting proposition. Why not? He felt dizzy and a little out of place standing around. Besides, nothing was going to happen. Why not a little random tour of the town with the nice random bar-lady?

"Alright."

He heard a door swing open. Tap tap tap...around to the open passenger side and then Owen was settled into his seat. He shut the door. Immediately, there came the click of the locks. No matter. The more pressing issue was the smell. Samantha's car reeked distinctively of cigarette smoke. Odd considering the far more pleasant aroma of fruity perfume she'd had on in the lounge. One might wonder at the mix of smells, the way her perfume had been just enough to tickle the sense but not so over-powering to suggest a masking of the burning odor of the vehicle. Definitely weird. It had the young doctor instinctively touching about his door for a button to roll down his window.

Click click.

But nothing worked.

"Those child safety locks are the best, huh?" She teased.

Owen didn't find it so amusing.

They were rolling away from the curb. He sat still a moment with the slow spread of concern sobering his mind. Wait. Something was off about this whole thing. Something wasn't right.

"So listen," a voice just behind Owen in the back seat. It sent an immediate chill down the young doctor's spine. A man's voice.

"You're going to toss back your wallet."

Oh no. Oh no oh no oh no...

Owen felt the press of something at the side of his neck. It's point was razor sharp and easily bit into his skin. At the same time, a hand reached over to grip his thigh, squeezing playfully. Samantha...

"Isn't this fun, baby?" She purred.

And suddenly everything held such a vicious undertone. Owen felt his breath caught up in his throat. His heart was slamming in his chest. _This wasn't happening. This was just another nightmare._ The car hit a bump and the blade at his neck jumped, cutting a thin line that immediately warned of the terrifying truth of things. It was all real.

 _Oh God._

He felt Samantha's fingers spread and begin stroking up and down his thigh. When his own hand dropped to brush her away, he received another warning slice that immediately froze his movements.

"The wallet," came the voice, again. And the command must have been directed Samantha's way because Owen felt her hand slide upwards, teasing the inside of his thigh. She then slipped into his pocket to retrieve the demanded item. He heard the wallet go tossed unceremoniously to the back.

"Please don't do this." Owen managed. "Yeah, take the wallet. Whatever. I don't care, just let me out, Samantha."

A chuckle from behind him.

"Yeah, Samantha," the guy said, drawing out the name in a way that suggested it wasn't her real name, "leave him alone, Samantha. He doesn't want your dirty hands all over him."

And with a violent tug in obvious embarrassment, the woman who was no longer Samantha pulled her hand from its place on Owen's leg. A moment later, pain blossomed from a fresh punch to the cheek. It had come strong and unexpected, the force of the blow enough to send Owen's head snapping to the side.

"I AM NOT DIRTY! I AM NOT!" She screamed with such venom, it took the shock out of the physical blow. Entire new layers were added to the already traumatic immediate. "Do you understand!?" And those words were directed at Owen for some reason. He blinked, numb, aching, terrified. He just sat, holding his cheek.

"DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME, OWEN!?"

The voice in the back was laughing as the unhinged woman literally began screaming obscenities and slapping at the doctor as she drove.

"Shut up, Megs."

"DON'T USE MY REAL NAME YOU-"

"SHUT THE HELL UP, MEGS!" The voice was a roar and enough to quite Megs' rambling. "He's with Bank of America, so you need to shut your mouth and take a right, up here. There's one of those bank kiosks just outside of town."

Owen wasn't paying attention. His mind buzzed and hummed and seemed to drift away from the present as the mix of panic and shock dulled his present. What was happening to him? God, what was happening? The cell in his pocket. Maybe if he could just...

"Hey," the knife at his neck threatened another slice. "Owen." His stomach twisted at the sound of his name on the lips of this unknown attacker. "You're going to give me your card's pin number, right now. And I'm going to draw out five hundred dollars from the ATM." The vehicle was slowing. "And you're going to be a nice little blind guy and not scream or do anything crazy because we are in an empty lot. No one will hear you. And if you make a scene..."

Pain. The blade slid into Owen's skin to solidify the promise. There would be pain like he'd never known. And then the knife was gone.

"Do you understand, Owen?"

"Yes," he breathed.

"Now, give me your pin, Owen."

The young doctor did. The vehicle rolled to a stop. Silence a moment.

"If this doesn't work, I'm going to be mad, Owen, ok?" The calm of the threat was the worst part. The young doctor nodded.

"Megs...you leave the nice cripple alone..."

No answer. Nothing Owen could make out. But then again, he wasn't really aware of much past the shake of his hands, the hum and buzz of his head.

Terror. True terror.

The back door opened and then shut. And there was nothing, save Owen's ragged breathing and the putter of the engine and the smell of smoke.

A short sigh at his side.

"It's nothing personal, baby," Megs began. He heard her shifting in her seat, restlessly. Her hand was back at his knee...

"And I'm sorry I hit you." She had leaned closer, a sick perversion of the flirtatious gesture from earlier that evening. "I'm just-...I don't know, Owen. Sometimes I get so mad." Her fingers at his leg suddenly hardened to vice-like claws. "And I'm not dirty, do you understand?"

"I didn't say that," he managed, struggling for some semblance of personal control. Get it together. You have to get it together and think of something.

"Oh," she breathed after a moment. "You're right." And it was like Megs-Who-Had-Been-Samantha had stumbled upon some hidden epiphany, the way her voice played the octaves. Severely unhinged. "It's that stupid ass Dan."

Owen said nothing.

"You know this was all his idea, right?" She pressed close. He could feel her chest rising and falling against his arm. Owen delicately tried to maneuver away, but it only served to wedge him against the door. And Megs followed.

"We just need some cash, Owen. 'Cause we got this plan. We're going to leave everything behind. You know? All the drugs and felonies...Dan said I won't have to stand on corners anymore. That's why I'm going with him, Owen." Her breath on his neck. It was sick. But there was also a part of him that listened and heard something profoundly sad in her words.

"I'm sorry about all this," she kissed his neck. "I'm sorry, baby."

Desperate. Scared. Vulnerable. And yet Owen's instincts warred with these truths. That twice in Forks, he had been willing to come face to face with the unseen and fight. Those same instincts spurred the moment. He couldn't just be a victim.

Owen turned in the seat. He met Megs straight on, taking those hands roaming his body and holding them tight. It must have been enough to shock her, because she didn't react immediately. They were inches part.

"Listen to me," Owen said and there was measured calm in his voice. "You can have the money. You can have my wallet. You don't need to take anything, Megs."

He felt her stiffen at the mention of her real name, but pressed on.

"I will happily give you this opportunity to start over, if that's what you want." Direct. Strong. "But you need to let me go."

"But what if I want more than your money and your wallet," a strange, pouting-like whine in her voice. And maybe something else. "What if I want you?" A dark, twisted mocking laughter.

"Let me go."

SLAP!

Again, Owen's head went whipping around. And stars were added to the infinite of his vision.

"Oh you're so generous, aren't you, Mr. Money?" Slap. "Just make everything ok for me. Rescue me! Rescue me!" She laughed and she screamed and she hit. Owen raised his arms to fend off the blows, unwilling to strike back, though his blood boiled for it. No. The hits were nothing, really. And they'd be nothing compared to that knife. So, instead, Owen turned his back to the abuse and tore at the door with all his might and slammed against it as the crazed woman slammed against him.

"HEY!" The man's muffled voice, approaching the car. "What the hell did I-"

And then nothing.

The hitting stopped.

Owen heard Megs lean forward in the seat.

"What is he doing?" She growled to herself. And then the woman was sliding back to the driver's seat to roll down the window.

"Dan, get in the car! Seriously, they probably have cameras in the area. We need to get going! Why are you just standing there!?"

And then she was silent.

"...Dan?"

Owen would never quite remember the way it happened. Because it all happened so fast. First, a scream. A man's scream. Like nothing he had ever heard because it was the kind of sound that came from the deepest part of a person.

Absolute. Primal. Terror.

It was enough to make everything that had happened in the past twenty minutes seem like a dream.

That sound...

And then the added mix of Megs' screams...

"DAN! DAAAN!"

And then she was frantic in the front seat. He heard the window rolling up, the engine gunned.

SLAM!

The entire car shook from what felt like another vehicle slamming into them. He heard the wailing of her shrill cries: "NO NO NO NO!"

Something tore at the plastic of the vehicle's exterior, a sharp, crunching noise. Megs must have found the gear shift and put the thing into drive because there came the screech of tires and Owen was suddenly thrust back into his seat with the manic acceleration. They pitched forward. Owen steadied himself with a hand at the door and another braced against the dashboard. But the car only made it a few feet before slamming into what must have been a light pole or the kiosk, itself. His head slammed forward. Another blast of dizzying pain and everything suddenly became very distant and murky, as if time had slowed and he was hearing the present through a funnel.

Megs kept screaming.

And despite the haze of the events, Owen would never forget the way her voice went shrill and then sort of completely changed into a gurgling mess.

Crunching...tearing...ripping...growling...

And then it was over.

Owen lay slumped in the vehicle. He was in and out of consciousness. But the one thing that remained every-present, ever-alert...that strange prickling sense of knowing. He had somehow caused this. Something in him had called to the violence of the night...had called for it...

He felt arms around him. He smelled spices and the ocean in her hair. His bloodied lips lifted.

And then her voice in his ear. That sweet, saving whisper...

"I'm here. I'm here, Owen."

 _Leah..._


	12. Chapter 12 - Breathe

**April 9th, 2006**

 **A continuation of the evening.**

 **Warning: Some violent and sensual themes.**

* * *

"...I need help..."

He heard her voice through the haze of cycling consciousness.

"...yes...I know..."

Her voice.

"Just...please!...I'll explain everything when you get here..."

They were in a vehicle. Owen felt the rhythmic trudge of the tires on the asphalt, the slowing and stopping, the gentle turns. A subconscious part of him felt that need to set his head against the window and settle into the vibrations of the trip as he always did when riding with his father. He idly wondered where the smell had gone, the smell of oil and gas. He wondered why his father wasn't playing an old mix of 70s rock. Where was the rattle of the engine, the blast of the air conditioning?

"Owen..."

Her voice.

"Owen, I need you to stay with me, ok?"

Her scent.

"You hit your head. I have help on the way."

His head lulled to the side, sightless eyes searching in vain for her sight. He said nothing.

"I just need you to stay with me." So strange. Owen's brows etched with a muddled thought; that this wasn't his father's truck. Blink blink. He leaned forward, groaning with the effort and felt a hand almost instantly at his shoulder. Strong. Steadying...trembling...

"God, please Owen."

"I'm alright," he murmured. His palms met his eyes and he rubbed, wincing with the pain of the contact at his temples. There was definitely something raised and painful dominating his forehead.

And her grip on his shoulder...

"What happened?" He asked, leaving his head to rest in the welcoming cradle of his hands.

 _What happened?_

A flash of remembrance. The knife at his throat. A woman's crazed rage and manic punches. And then the screaming.

Owen tensed.

 _What happened...?_

 _The sounds of death. Horrible, agonizing death._

"I'm taking you back to your hotel, Owen," she said, tone edged with a distinct, practiced control. She didn't answer his question. And he didn't ask, again.

Another ten minutes or so and the vehicle had eased into a park. They sat in silence. For some reason, in the immense overload of too much, his mind had settled upon something of absolute least importance. It had dominated his thoughts while all the rest, all the insane whirl of fear and confusion remained at the peripheral.

"How did you know where I was staying?" He hesitantly asked, feeling foolish for it but also somehow unable to think of anything else to say.

"I picked up your wallet." And Leah sounded just as distant. "I saw your hotel key card."

"Ok."

Shock. That's what this was. That's what they were experiencing.

The clinician in him registered the fact as they sat in the truck, both dazed and unable to grip what had just happened. Her hand was still on his shoulder. And for some reason, the only thing that made sense in the moment was to turn, grip her wrist and tug her the distance closer. There was hesitance on her part. He felt tension beneath his grip and half-expected Leah to pull away. But then it was gone. Her forehead almost naturally fell to rest at his chest. Her arms wrapped about his neck. His slipped about her body.

And there in the silence, they held each other for what could have been eternity. Leah. She filled his senses. Her touch. The sound of her hitching breath in a quiet fight to keep from sobbing. Her smell of spices and the sea...

And blood.

 _Oh, Leah._

 _What happened?_

xXXx

She rose amidst the carnage, blood painting her naked body in those dark colors of raw violence. Blood like water that ran in rivulets down the decline of the empty parking lot. The two bodies were indistinguisheable. Limbs and bone and meat that surrounded her like a sadistic sacrifice to the throws of unrestraint. And she was the altar that stood at the center of it all. She was the goddess of this violence.

Her bare chest rose and fell with such calm. Leah absently wondered at that; the detachment. Shouldn't she be feeling something? Her confused gaze traveled the scene. Where was the panic? The revulsion? The fear? She followed the trail of blood back to the car where the barest glimpse of him could be made out. His head rested against the dash. And her own head lulled to the side, feelings of such intensity nearly bringing tears to her eyes.

 _I'm so sorry._

She stepped forward.

 _Because this is only the beginning._

She reached the car, the driver's side door nearly torn from its hinges from where she had dug her wolfen jaws. She crawled inside, a glimpse of the animal in her effortless movements. Feral. Raw. The instincts lingered. Leah could feel the beast's demands to be near him...

She drifted closer.

Her eyes shut.

She breathed him in. That warm, saving scent. Her arms encircled him. She pressed close. And then her lips were at his ear.

"I'm here. I'm here, Owen."

xXXx

Her eyes opened, banishing the memory. They were in her truck, outside his hotel. His arms. His smell. A flash of rage. White-hot. Burning. It curled her lips. Those damn weak tears nearly cried into his shirt. For what? Leah pushed away from him, from his touch, from his comfort.

"What the hell were you thinking, huh!?"

She was covered in blood, the gruesome mess staining the hoodie and sweats she had thrown on after getting him out of the car and into her vehicle.

"Why were you with those people, Owen!?"

She barely registered his startled expression at her outburst. Of course her sudden snap of anger made no sense. Nothing made sense anymore. _Like how I was able to find you in the middle of Seattle in the middle of the night without even a scent. Everything is different now._

"It was just-" He murmured, still apparently reeling from her strange fury.

But how could he fathom the myriad of things tearing Leah apart? That rightness she felt in his arms. The fight against it to protect herself and protect him. The chasm of emotions she had felt when she found him...when she had caught sight of the woman hitting him. The fear and confusion of what it meant to be knit to another soul.

She had heard his call...

She had followed the trail of his spirit...

She had felt his pain...

Her fist slammed against the steering wheel.

"Everything is different now," she snarled through clenched teeth, an echo of her thoughts said more to herself than him.

Silence.

Neither spoke. Neither moved. They simply existed in that reality, together. The gaping, infinite newness. Everything was different. Nothing would be the same, again. Finally, she heard Owen tap around for the door handle and then exit the vehicle. She followed. The simmer she felt came and went with the passing moments, like a tide; the ebb and flow of raw emotions. It was hard enough trying to wrap her mind around what had happened, let alone what it all meant. Nevermind. Leah had never been one to wallow in introspection. She set her gaze to the ground and quietly followed Owen into the hotel.

It was late and they passed through with a small mercy of empty halls. Not a person to catch sight of the beaten blind man and the blood-stained woman at his heels. She idly watched his methods. His hand up and trailing the wall, almost as a child might. The lazy feel of passing textures. But this wasn't some game, Leah realized faintly. This was Owen's life. She could imagine his lips, wordlessly counting the doorframes 'til he stopped near the end of the hall, turned and took two measured steps to the door adjacent the one his fingers had drifted over. Leah had been so caught up in watching the process, it took her a moment of his standing at the open door to realize he was waiting for her to enter.

Seconds later, she stood in an immaculate space. Though it was obvious his things were arranged for a weekend stay, everything was in order. His suitcase was closed and settled near the end of the bed. He had clothes already layed out on the bed. A pair of pajama bottoms, a pair of jeans and a plain t-shirt beside it. Like an assembly line. No doubt his entire life was made up of small systems to compensate for the lack of sight. He had to. There had to be order or everything was just...fall apart. Leah's mind had welcomed the relief of such trivial musings until she settled into that glaring conclusion. And then like the tail of a hurricane after passing through its eye, memory of the night returned.

Systems. Order. All the beautiful, inconsiquential normal. He would never know that luxury again. Sure the innocuous processes like wardrobe might remain the same. But the safety of blissful ignorance was gone.

She heard the door shut. The room closed to blackness. And it struck her in that moment, when the lights didn't immediately come on that this must have been what it was like for Owen. Cold, complete, empty nothingness. Wasn't that blindness? Such perfect nothingness. No ugliness to see. No blood and gore. What she would have given for that blessing.

The lights remained off.

She didn't say anything.

She didn't move.

But she listened as Owen made his way confidently through the small space. There was no tapping of his cane. The darkness was no hindrance. He had memorized the place. Suddenly, Leah felt the faint traces of what it must be like to be handicapped in a world others took for granted. That creeping uncertainty...the vulnerability. _No._ A thick weight choked her at the thought. _Never._ She refused to feel even the barest hint of defenselessness.

"You couldn't get the lights, huh?" She flung the irritation out like the obvious guard it was, hands out, feeling for a wall so she could find the light switch. Had she been the wolf, her eyes would have adjusted immediately. As it was, Leah was an island in an ocean of the unknown. Every testing step forward an awful, sickening accusation of weakness in the setting...

Was this what it was like for him...? She felt dependent. She felt angry. She felt petulant in the simplicity of it all. _Just find the stupid wall and turn on the stupid lights!_ _And where was he, anyway!?_

"Damn it, Owen, turn on the lights!"

She stumbled about the darkness.

But then he was there. She felt a hand on her shoulder.

It caught Leah off-guard. A warrior's instincts tightened the muscles of her body. Her fists clenched. It took conscious effort not to unleash on him the full fury of everything she was feeling...all that awful apprehension of the dark...the pent-up emotions of the night...the remnants of the wolf begging for more fight. Yes. She wanted to fight. God, she wanted to fight.

"You're such an asshole!" Leah violently shoved away from him. And it felt good. "You could have died tonight! You know that, right? I could smell it on them." This was his fault. Yes. The violence. The release. More. More. She took a step forward, found his chest and shoved him again. But there was no response. It made it all the worse. "He wanted to kill you!" Leah hissed. "She wanted to-..." The woman had reeked of lust. And what had she smelled of Owen those precious few seconds before the wolf had taken over?...

A snatch of her wrists. His other hand gripped her shoulder again. But it was different. Strong...commanding...demanding...

The shock of that powerful, sudden grip tripped up her typical stubborness. And then he had her backed up against the very wall she had been searching for. Her breath caught in her throat. There was a subconscious struggle, but nothing enough to break his hold on her as Owen Reid steadied her against the wall.

It clicked then.

Strength. Resolve. Defiance. That had been his scent in the car when the crazed woman battered at him.

That was his scent, right then, in their moment together. Strength beyond anything she possessed. Because he had not thrown her against the wall. He had pressed her to it. There was no rough, brutality in the way Owen locked her in place. It was the stark contrast of complete restraint.

He was in control...

And it fired Leah's blood with an intense, terrifying desire.

They remained like that for a long stretch of pounding heartbeats. So close. The touch of their bodies. Leah could hardly breathe.

And he took advantage of that space of uncertainty...

"You are not a monster."

Shock heaped upon shock.

Leah blinked. Her lips parted to speak. But nothing.

"You are not..." and his forehead met hers and her eyes shut of their own accord, drinking in his presence and his words, "a monster," he finished in a whisper.

No tears. Though they threatened, she held them back. The way she held them back in the truck and those nights she sat alone on his office porch and through her father's funeral. It was almost too much. The build of torrential hurt so desperately clung to for so long. All the wracking doubt and personal torment that, yes, she was the monster and, yes, she deserved to feel like a monster for killing her father and bringing shame and hell to her family. The first female wolf. The bastard of the pack.

What right did he have to tell her otherwise?

Still...

In fullest betrayal of her resolve, Leah felt her body give way. Maybe it was the slavery of the imprinting? That she could be so fully connected to this man. That she could feel the call of his heart; all the wealth of sincerity in those few whispered words. Her shoulders slumped. She leaned into his touch but she did not slip to the ground.

He was there.

His arms around her...tight...strong...holding her up through the flood of pain.

But she would give him no tears. Never, damn it. Never.

"You are worth so much more than you know, Leah."

 _Just stop._

"You aren't alone."

 _Don't do this._

"Leah..."

Too much. The pull of the imprint. The trauma of the night. Like sticks against an avalanche, there was no barring the inevitable. And so what else was there?...

Leah lifted her lips to his, sudden and reckless. Embrace the abandon. Fall into it. Drown in him. She did. Her body arched, pressing, needing. And after a breath's hesitation he was with her, meeting her indulgence with a near overwhelming release of his own. God, the heady rush it brought. Their lips explored with a desperation borne of need. So much built tension. They unleashed upon each other.

She lifted herself up on his hips, wrapping her legs about his waist.

His kiss trailed to her neck. And Leah welcomed the ministrations of his lips, tossing her head back to give fullest access.

Owen was her drug, the wicked, addictive drug that she had fought for so long. Why? As Leah sunk into his touch, she absently wondered at the anomaly of denying such beautiful carnality. Why hadn't she just accepted things and given into the impulse to have him, to devote herself to him? This was the purpose of imprinting, wasn't it? This was why the mystic cumpulsions existed...

To be his...completely...forever...

No.

And in one clean motion, Leah slid from his body, reversed the grip he had on her and had him pressed against the wall.

A breath away from each other. Their breaths mixing in the nearness. He smelled of alcohol and blood. _Mmmmmm_ , the purr in her throat. The hum of the wolf. One thing Owen would learn of her...the most defining aspect of Leah Clearwater. She would not be owned. Coercion of heritage and supernatural forces be damned. She would fight it to the end of her days if it meant imprinting relegated her to some cowed, slobbering dog.

She would be no Sam Uley.

A small, feral smile crept up her lips as she drifted away from the man who had been destined for her.

 _My terms_ , Leah promised the universe. _This only happens on my terms._

xXXx

Owen would not see the blood-stained hoodie lift from her body and go tossed carelessly to the side. He would not see the sweatpants left in a heap beside the door to the bathroom. All he would know was that agonizing absence of her presence. He heard the creak of the shower, spraying to life. The sound sent his heart up into his throat. His already wild pulse shifted up another gear. He shut his empty eyes as the sounds of the water washing over her body beckoned like a siren's song.

No words. None needed.

He left his own clothes behind and joined her in the dark, beneath the wash of water...

And the cleansing of blood.

* * *

Author's notes: Wow this one took it out of me, guys. There's some emotional drain just with a few threads of themes that have resonated personally in my life. Nothing crazy or scary, I promise. But that struggle we sometimes feel when helping loved ones who are hurting. Writing can be so cathartic at times and I'm so grateful for all your kind, thoughtful words.

Just as a quick aside, I could not tear myself away from a certain song while writing this. I wanted to share with you guys: Boyce Avenue's, "Love Me Like You Do". I think it so speaks to Owen's heart in these moments.

Thank you


	13. Bonus Chapter: A Heaven of Hell

Author's notes: This One-Shot picks up right after the events of A Wolf in The Twilight, Chapter 12 – Breathe. Due to the mature themes, this is being presented as a 'Bonus Chapter' and just serves to further develop the characters of the main story. If you have not read A Wolf in The Twilight, please feel free to give it a shot! I would so appreciate your thoughts! The actual progression of the main story will pick up again in the next chapter of A Wolf in The Twilight.

* * *

 **April 9th, 2006**

 **A Continuation of The Evening**

* * *

The darkness. It became an almost welcome escape from the merciless sight of herself. The darkness of his hotel room was a thick drape blanketing the truth of the night...that it had happened...that she had done those things...

And the worst of it, that the wolf in her had taken pleasure in the kills.

A shudder involuntarily tremor'd up her spine. Leah stood in the shower, turning the water to hit her with its fullest, angry blast. A shock to the skin. She caught her breath but didn't turn away from it. She didn't deserve to feel good about the things she felt and maybe a bit of physical discomfort would help to rouse her from the odd stupor that had taken over. There was a horrid numbness to it all. As if killing had been just another part of her change to be accepted. Leah bowed her head to the wash of chill, willing the shower to remove the stains of the night. But it didn't. Her shoulders rose and fell with deep breaths beneath the cold caress of the water but there was no relief. The memory clung to her like the blood in her hair. The abject indifference in the rending of flesh from bone. She scrubbed at herself but the blood wouldn't come off. It couldn't be reconciled.

 _You are not a monster..._

She didn't hear him enter the bathroom and only barely registered his presence when the temperature licking at her skin slowly began to change as he silently dipped to turn the shower handle, adding a semblance of warmth. Like Owen, Leah was not a soul of poetry. If so, maybe the sentiments of that subtle change, the layers it spoke, might have been recognized...and held...and cherished...

But for a woman like Leah Clearwater, nuances in life and love could so easily go unnoticed. Not for any lack of internal depth but for the simple reality of character, of who she truly was inside.

An uncomplicated warrior, through and through.

The wolf.

And it was like at some fundamental level, he understood this about her. He knew that it was not some pretentious mask of poeticism that would speak to her in those moments. No words, even, that could hope to articulate the truth of things. He spoke her language in the gentlest touch.

 _I'm here._

He stood behind her. His fingers spread, gliding across the aching, knotted muscles of those tight shoulders.

Such sweet silent assurances...

 _You're not alone._

Leah leaned back, falling easily into his caring attention. His hands made sense. Expert...dominant...there was a certain strength in the way he navigated the planes of her back, kneading and knowing every point in need of pressure. The intoxicating sense of senselessness had returned. The same feeling of slow, slipping control. For a woman constantly grounded in self-command, it felt near-euphoric to tease the absence of it.

Eyes sealed. She bit at her lower lip.

He had made her feel this way before, days ago, at her house. The day he had thrown all caution aside and come to her home after their missed appointment. Why was that again? Through the daze and haze, it was difficult to remember why she would ever willingly pass up his hands on her body. Their powerful, guiding grip. It slid up and down her back, smoothing away the mess of blood; his touch making clean what had been so wrong…

But Leah was not poetic about it.

Her own hand lifted, her own touch begging more as her fingertips slid back through his hair. She pressed back against him. A rumble in his chest. Leah could feel it and the sensation sent her heart skipping a few beats. The groan deep in him communicated an easily interpreted want for more...that desire for more.

She answered.

Those fingers in his hair tightened upon the soaking, golden locks. Her other hand drifted to light upon the curve of his bare hip. Just the softest caress there. Her nails gently scratching at the skin. And she knew she had him. Leah knew control was not something either of them would easily own that night.

His arms were strong. Far stronger than she could have guessed by the way they slipped about her body, wrapping her up in his embrace. She could feel the muscles swelling. Everything swelling...urging...insisting…

Leah let it happen.

A simple arch of the hips and she brought their worlds colliding together. He pressed back into her and there came a moment's hesitation, a sort of pause of time and their individual universes as the phenomenon of closest, deepest intimacy resonated throughout their bodies. This was theirs to share; this escape into one another. And then the slow, testing rhythm of new lovers, together.

It was surprising how gentle and right it felt…

So unlike her.

Other lovers had been but passing things to be used and explored. Simple sexual experimentation. Leah's last had come and gone as a horrible, hurtful betrayal. And then nothing for so long.

Until him.

Until that moment, there in the dark beneath the wash of water. The wrap of his arms. The glide of his hips. It numbed the mind. Boiled her senses. Everything about him.

A small hitch of a moan escaped Leah's lips. God, she wanted more of him and less of the world. She wanted to forget. And so her foot found the lip of the bathtub. Leah released him and braced her hands against the walls of the shower, one at the side, the other in front of her. A dip of her torso was all it took. His hands naturally fell to her flanks. She thrust back against him and it took all the fight in her not to cry out at his sudden depth. And Leah was not alone in the heady rush of things. His groan met the tempting of unspoken boundaries.

How far was too far? How much was too much? Especially on a night that had yielded such trauma. Or maybe that was the point of it all?...Purest escape; a cheating of the wrecked feelings that had burned deep into their hearts. The victim and the beast. Only time would tell if this was simply two people using one another to temporarily avoid the hurt. _Who cares. It doesn't matter._ That's what Leah promised herself as she demanded more of the euphoria in the angles she allowed him to reach. This was good pain, she promised herself, in the forceful pounding.

Like a drug.

No control. No more thoughts of the night. Nothing but that tempo of raw sex to layer the bad in reckless abandon. Sex like some corrupt echo of the damned night. She wanted the violence of it. She deserved it, didn't she? To feel the punishment of her sins in this intoxicating new language of theirs.

It was so much easier…

Owen Reid would come to surprise Leah many times in their short time together before the end.

And when she thought back upon the circumstances that led to his death, the thread always managed to trail back to that night...their first night together…the night he refused to let her limit herself…

He drew her up, led her around to face him...the softest drift of fingertips down her cheek...and then he kissed her...

Leah would never forget that kiss. The promise it spoke.

 _You are worth so much more than you know…_

They made love beneath the wash of the water. And then again in the bed. And for the first time since her change and the passing of her father, Leah Clearwater felt a glimmer of hope for the future. Maybe this would all somehow work out? Maybe he would stay…

They ended the night tangled together in a mess of limbs and sheets. She watched Owen slip into the most restful sleep as she idly stroked his hair. Such sweet contentment. Leah shifted ever so slightly to kiss his eyes, those sightless eyes that seemed to see so much more than so many others.

"I'm yours," she whispered to his dreaming self. "And you're mine. And I'll never let anything happen to you…"


	14. Chapter 13 - As Iron to Adamant

**TO MY READERS**

 **Thank you.**

 **I have been so blessed to have the support you've given. And your wonderful insight and thoughts. It's inspiring to read your investment in this endeavor. Unfortunately, life has thrown me some recent difficulties that will prevent me from writing consistently at this time. My hope is to continue, as I can. And once everything is finished, I would like to post everything at once.**

 **Thank you, again, for reading.**

* * *

 **April 10th, 2006**

* * *

The night was a cascading avalanche of life and death and love. Every facet of it a raw, gritty tumult that so perfectly echoed the souls of those affected. Two souls that had lived their every moment up 'til then in yielding resistance.

 _I am blind._

 _I am a woman of my tribe._

 _I will not be limited._

And then the night was over. Time could be such a merciless bastard. A sort of God like those dreamed up in ancient days, convenient excuses for things beyond man. If time was a god, he was an unfeeling one. A god who mocked the special, sacred times. And to be sure mankind did not have many. Leah did not have many. So when morning did come with its relentless, inevitable promise of change, Leah wished there was some real god of time who would hear her curses and take some small measure of offense. _Was that too much to ask?_

And as if reading her thoughts, his sleepy voice beside her: "What time is it?"

"Shhh, go back to sleep," and she stroked his hair and kissed his face.

But Owen was a man not so easily pacified.

"What time is it, Leah?"

She sighed. It was the end of the most awful, horrific and beautiful nights of her life. That's what time it was, Owen.

But instead, Leah opted to leave the snark for later and nuzzle deep into that welcoming crook of shoulder into neck. She had come to find it the best fit for her head to rest. Such a perfect fit. He yawned and stretched out, an arm ending about her own shoulders and gently pressing her close. It was all Leah could do not to explore him one more time. She shut her eyes. Contented herself with mere existence in that shared space with him for just a few more moments. Her knee draped across his waist. A hand at his chest. She wiled the seconds away with tiny kisses all about his neck. Such pure, perfect bliss.

He shifted slightly. A small groan in his chest. She felt it beneath her touch, even though it went bit back from his lips. It wasn't any kind of the groan she'd come to relish throughout the night; that telling sound of pleasure. _No._ This was the sort of groan that spoke of truest aches...the deep pains of the body. And Leah's eyes opened. And she lifted her head just slightly to take in his body in the new light of morning.

What met her gaze caught her breath up in her throat.

Dark blotches of spreading contusions painted his arms where that woman had hit him. Worse than Leah could have guessed coming from such a petite figure. But she had done damage with her blows. Bruises at his chest beneath the caress of her fingertips. Further up, tiny, red lines marred the very place she had been kissing...slices from a knife at the neck. _God. What had they done to him?_ There were risen welts along his forehead from the crash of the vehicle.

 _What more would they have done...?_

"Leah?..."

She was trembling.

He felt it.

"Hey, come here," his soft, imploring voice. But the warrior-ess couldn't reason beyond her own feelings. She pulled further away, staring at him, staring beyond him and deep into a sudden rush of swift uncertainty. _What would have happened if she had not found him, last night? No. That wasn't the question, was it? Be honest. Would any of this have happened if she had just stayed away?_ More...more more... The tribe. _This was all the tribe's fault._ Her heritage. Her people. _The death that came of this damn curse and the vile things that came with it._ Vampires. Those hikers killed in the mountains. Dr. Taggert's attempted suicide. Everything was a wicked spiral to the eventual brutality of the night before. And it was all as she had assumed.

 _I will kill him. The fate of what I am will kill him._

She felt herself push his hands away.

 _I can't...I can't I can't I can't I can't..._

But then there came a hand at her bare waist and another glided to her cheek. Leah blinked, dazed from the panic. His touch so immediate and present. Steadying. Reassuring. She paused.

"You didn't do this to me." How had he known? The words penetrated, a light through the manic, whirling doubt.

"What?" She murmured, confused...

"Leah, I don't know what happened last night. Frankly, I'm not quite sure of anything anymore. But I do know one thing..." He kissed her. The tension in her body washed away like the washing of blood from flesh. "This makes sense." How could she deny it? Every fiber of her blood, body and spirit called out to this man and when he responded it was as if the shattered pieces of her world had suddenly come together, reforming, remaking, redefining life into something new.

"I need to tell you something..." she whispered at his lips, unwilling to break their contact, unsure whether she might go on, if they did.

Owen was the one to pull back the inch or so to give room for her to speak. Because he was listening. When she looked into his face, she saw the iron of his resolve. Amazing. It stumbled her words as Leah stared at the man before her. That determination settled in the line of his mouth. As if nothing could change his mind about her...about them, together. It bolstered confidence. Leah drew in a deep breath.

She would tell him everything...

She would have told him everything...

If not for the startling pound of knuckles at the door.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

Both paused, their moment stuck in a strange limbo at the jarring and unexpected sound.

Owen gritted his teeth: "Seriously, they check towels at the worst times, here."

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

"Leah?"

And that was it. Slam. That lone voice like a gavel's bang effectively ending anything more.

"Leah, open the door, please."

Sue Clearwater. Her voice so cold, so calm, and edged with an unquestioning authority. Somehow it spurred the lovers. They were up and out of the bed in an instant, sprung like rabbits from a burrow. Nevermind both were old enough to do whatever the hell they liked, together. This was Sue Clearwater.

"What's your mother doing here!?" Owen hissed, stumbling about with a pair of sweatpants, halfway up his legs.

"I called her, last night!" Came Leah's groan. She hadn't brought in her bag from the truck. And as she rifled through her crumpled clothes from the night before she realized there was no chance at wearing them again. Blood stained the material. Her shoulders slumped.

"I was worried about a concussion, so I asked her to come check in on you..."

A pause.

The scramble had ceased.

Leah glanced up from her place at the bathroom doorway to catch sight of a half-dressed blind-man trying desperately to bite back a laugh. Literally. He had a fist in his mouth and was baring down on it to keep from breaking.

Her brows furrowed in response.

"You think this is funny!?" She spat in a whisper.

"A little," he managed and, without thinking, she had wadded up her torn and blooded shirt and thrown it at him.

"Leah, please finish dressing and open the door," came her mother's voice a moment later. And that was enough to sober Owen and paint both their faces with an immediate blush.

"I-..." Leah rose and stepped over to him, letting his nearness ease away some of the stress of things. She kissed him. He kissed her, a hand resting at her bare side. He felt the absence of material and she felt his touch drift a bit lower in instinct. It numbed her mind, sent shivers up her spine.

She tore away an inch, punching him in the shoulder.

"Ow."

"Don't do that," Leah quietly berated.

He smiled.

"I...," a continuation of her original thought, "I can't lose you."

And that brought an almost immediate weight back into Owen's disposition. She recognized the protective air imperceptively straightening his spine, tightening his jaw, etching his brows. No. Leah needed him to understand her words. She let her mother stand outside the door another minute as she cupped his cheek and nuzzled, again, into his neck as they stood together. His arms wrapped about her. They held each other.

You are mine and I am yours.

"Here," he said, finally releasing her and drifting down to his bag. After a moment, he rose again with a long dress shirt in-hand. It was her turn to smile. And she accepted the proffered clothing with a short shake of the head. Sometimes his read on situations was so accurate, she wondered if the blindness was some sort of a ruse. Or maybe it was just that Owen Reid saw more in the absence of sight than many did with it.

Leah slipped the thin shirt on, noting its length ended at a suggestive mid-thigh. Whatever. It completed the picture of cliche, disheveled lover, which she figured she might as well proudly own. Because this was her life. And, scandal be damned, Leah Clearwater felt happy for the first time in a long time.

"Hello, mother," the younger Quileutte woman said as she opened the door.

Sue Clearwater stood, arms folded, eyes sharpened with a kind of judgement that had Leah temporarily tumbling back years when she had been caught sneaking into the house after a night out drinking with Sam. That same disapproving, near-disgusted look. Leah met it head-on with the defiant raise of her chin.

"Good to see you've kept him awake all night," came the older woman's chilled greeting. "Always good to keep head trauma victims awake and alert which I'm sure you ensured." And with that, Sue pushed past her daughter into the room where Owen was just tugging on a fresh polo shirt. He too looked the part of rumpled lover, what with the mixed wardrobe of dress-shirt and sweat-pants. His golden hair was a mess. Even despite herself and the embarrassing situation, Leah couldn't help another grin at the sight of him.

"Good morning Ms. Clearwater..." Said Owen, picking up on her footsteps towards him.

"Good morning, Dr. Reid." The formality was a subtle bite the way only a mother could. She went directly up to him and began her assessment. And then began the less-than-subtle verbal stabbing,

"You look like you haven't slept a wink..."

An instant firing of the cheeks.

"And so glad to note your respect for our conversation the other day."

"Mrs. Clearwater, I assure you, I-...OW!" She pressed a palm to his battered forehead with the delicacy of a freight train.

"Hm. No fever."

Arms folded. Jaw set. Leah rolled her eyes. Why had she called her mother?...Her mother of all people!? The stupidest mistake in the world. And one the young Quileute woman promised herself she'd never make again.

"Alright," Leah finally growled from the doorway, protective instincts firing on all cylinders as Sue made her point of obvious disdain in merciless tugs and pulls. "Enough, mother. I just wanted to make sure he was ok."

"Oh, he's doing just fine," came the snap of a reply. Sue had the sphere of a stethoscope pressed to Owen's back. "I'd say a good day's rest is in order after the night he's had." Not a glance up. The words were like hidden barbs in the show of clinical concern. Poisoned barbs. And they struck true by the way Owen's shoulders dropped slightly. A good man slapped with a thing he held dear: respect for others...respect for Sue...respect for Leah.

And her mother knew it.

"I need to get back to Forks for another shift. Thank you for the panic. Enjoy my daughter, Dr. Reid."

And just like that, she was past Leah and out the door without another word. Leah caught the briefest sight of Owen sitting heavily upon the edge of the bed, rubbing at his sore neck. His face was like a clear-painted canvas, the purist insight into just how bad Sue had made him feel.

Leah's hackles raised. She hurried to the bathroom and slipped on her pants, disregarding the blood and suddenly the young wolf was prowling after her mother. She caught up to the elder Clearwater outside, near the car. Sue was just opening the door when she caught sight of her daughter. Disgust. Open disgust. The feelings were mutual. Leah stepped right up to her mother, put a hand on the and slammed it shut.

"How dare you," she hissed at her mother.

"How dare me!?" Sue shot back with a matching vitriol. "You call in the middle of the night and beg me to come here. Imagine. My daughter, my little girl, crying on the phone that something awful has happened. So I leave my work early-"

"Oh such a sacrifice."

"Don't you interrupt me, child!" And Leah almost subconsciously bit her tongue. The evidence of strictest early childhood training at work. "I drive all this way for you and come to find all Seattle lit up by news of 'another attack'."

The fire was quickly leaving Leah's blood, replaced by a cold wash of fear. Suddenly there were whole new elements added to the mess of things. Because she hadn't thought through everything. The bodies...the car...it had all happened so fast. And then Owen...he had been bleeding...she just hadn't thought-

"Mutilated bodies in a parking lot," Sue practically snarled in a whisper, a raw sound that further quelled the moment and injected more reality into the nightmare. "And then I find my daughter whoring the night away with a beaten, blind doctor."

Tears. Damn it. She finally felt them in the corner of her eyes. Those physical manifestations of weakness. Tears because it was only her parents who could ever bring them on. The way her mother could stab into her heart and pull the deepest parts to light. Her father had done the same. Only his touch had been gentle...always so gentle...

"Because you don't think, Leah Clearwater!" Sue unleashed the fullness of her motherly wrath. A step forward. She stared daggers into her daughter's eyes, capitalizing on the hitch of breath choking out her daughter's retorts. "You feel and you act and you don't think." The strangest thing. Because Leah could swear she saw tears in her own mother's eyes. The sight of them welling...yes...and then pouring down her mother's cheeks as she cried.

"JUST LIKE YOUR FATHER!" Sue screamed.

The sudden force of those words in that tone like a slap.

Leah was silent.

Her mother wasn't. Though far quieter through the sobs, Sue wringed her hands with the force of her rare emotion.

"What have you done..." Fear. Anger. Sadness...sincerity...that's what caught Leah so off-guard in the moment. There were none of the typical walls holding Sue's truest self in that moment. None of the surety and stone. "What have you done, Leah..." This was a scared mother, pure and simple. A mother hit by too much too soon. "What have you done, child..."

They did not embrace. They cried their tears inches apart from each other, holding themselves. And when finally the women were drained of their passion, and the sweet, empty hollowness had returned, mother and daughter finally looked back into one another's eyes.

"They were going to kill him." Leah managed in a broken voice.

"What does it matter," went the spat reply.

And this was it, the moment Leah gathered herself, raised her chin, straightened her shoulders and finally gave utterance to the truth of things. For her mother. For herself.

"I am his and he is mine."

Silence.

Nothing.

Sue Clearwater was a statue as she stared at her daughter. And the only sign that a heart still beat in her old, tired chest was the look that slowly began etching new lines into her face...

Confusion. Absolute confusion as her world suddenly flipped upside down with the words her daughter had just spoken.

"What did you say?" Sue breathed.

"Owen Reid is my mate."

Sue's back met the side of the car. She was trying to process. First, the form of the wolf. The change. And the change in her precious boy. And then her husband's death. And now...

"Those nights you were at his office..."

Leah's blinked: "How did you-"

"You are drawn to him?"

YES. Drawn, pulled, tugged, coerced, dragged kicking and screaming at times. Yes...

"I feel his heart in mine, beating with mine."

Too much too soon.

Sue finally shook her head, raked a palm past her eyes to scatter the remnants of her tears. A deep breath. Her own resolve was returning.

"These attacks in Seattle..." There had been a growing concern among the public as the bodies began to pile. "Law enforcement are blaming inner-city gangs. So you have a cover, Leah."

Strange how clinically detached Sue sounded. But Leah could not fathom the depths a mother would go, her mother would go, for her.

"Our family has ties to Seattle. We have favors..."

"What do you mean?"

"Nevermind," Sue snapped in a revival of her old self. "Just know that you and Dr. Reid were never there. Don't speak of it again, do you understand me, Leah?" The gravity of those words elicited an odd feeling of wariness in the younger Quileute. An unsurety. A questioning of previously held assumptions about her family...about the tribe.

Favors...?

"Yes," Leah murmured. "I understand."

"Not a word more about what happened, last night."

But that wasn't all. Because when the women caught each other's eyes one last time, Sue had one thing more. The distance was there, to be sure. The coldness set. But there was more...an imploring gravity that seemed to anchor her next words. She reached out and took Leah's hand in her own. The unexpected familiarity layered the confusion by also denying the expected harshness. Sue's touch was gentle...the way Leah remembered her father's touch had been so gentle...

"None of it happened, last night." And it clicked. What her mother was communicating, right then, in that space of strangest connection. No one could know about Seattle.

"You are the first female wolf, Leah," Sue pressed. "Everyone is so wrapped up in this Bella business. But you," she squeezed Leah's hand, "you are something so much more. The first female wolf...my daughter..."

A pause. Leah felt her mother's hands trembling in her own.

"The tribe doesn't know what that means, yet. They can't comprehend the significance. And that is to your benefit, Leah. Because mark my words these boys of the pack will not respect the sanctity of the imprint. They are children, playing games of leadership. They are petulant and if they discover that the first female has imprinted upon someone outside the tribe, they will be reckless about it."

"That's not fair-"

"Of course it's not. But things will change, Leah. The council looks upon me as a shadow of your father. They have no idea. The men of this tribe cannot fathom our worth. So I intend to make them. But it's a process, Leah. This will take time. And until the council and the pack gives into reason, you must be careful. Keep the pack ignorant of last night because their ignorance is your shield. Play your part in these silly games of wolves and vampires. Pretend. Lie. Do not let on about your imprinting for your sake and-...and for the sake of your mate."

The women parted. And in their parting, something new had been born between them. Mother and daughter. Women of the tribe. Fighters. Sue turned and slipped into the driver-seat of her car. The engine fired up and Leah watched her mother sit a moment, lost in her own secret thoughts. The window rolled down.

"Sam is distracted, right now, Leah. Guard your heart and your mind." Literally. The shared link with the pack could expose everything in an instant. "Keep Owen safe."

And that was it. No words of parting thanks and love passed the lips of the women as they went their own ways: Sue back home to Forks, Leah back home to the arms of her lover.

Leah re-entered the room to find Owen still sitting where he had been. That slump of the shoulders. It paused her step and chiseled a bit of the severity away. That dear, precious fool...

"Stop pouting you big baby."

"Dude," he lifted his head, "We totally got busted by your mom."

And there was that irreverence. That wonderful escape from all the mess of reality.

"Oh the scandal." Leah teased, drifting forward to lay beside him, a leg off the bed while her head settled into his lap. His hand was immediately there to sift through the locks of her short, raven hair. Leah shut her eyes. She smiled.

"So?" He asked, expectantly.

"She's going back for the shotgun."

Leah slit an eye open to catch the subtle bob of his head in begrudging acceptance.

"Awesome," he groaned.

A laugh. And then they stayed there like that in the silence for a while. There was still the matter of what had been discussed with her mother, of the truth she had been compelled to tell him, prior to her mother's arrival. The tribe. The wolves. Leah rested in his lap, riffling through all the reasons he needed to be made aware. It's why she had originally come to find him in Seattle. His safety obviously depended on knowing, right? Didn't the circumstances of the prior night necessitate the revelation?...wolves and vampires...

He was in danger.

And as if on cue, Owen's voice...

"Hey, what did you want to talk to me about?"

"Hm?"

"Before your mother arrived. You said you had something to tell me..."

Leah reached a hand up to trace the line of his lips. She opened her eyes again and watched him, watched his kiss upon her fingertips. The words of her mother rolled about her mind.

"Nothing," she finally said.

And though she understand there would never again exist the notion that she could deny the imprinting. It didn't mean she couldn't do everything in her power to guard it...to guard him. She lifted herself up. She wrapped herself about him and kissed Owen with a passion of fullest, deepest acceptance.

They would have to discuss the intricacies of their relationship and what that meant moving forward.

But not then.

 _My love. My mate._


End file.
